


The Mirror and the Other

by KeplersDream1609



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2018-07-14 09:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 44
Words: 151,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7165922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeplersDream1609/pseuds/KeplersDream1609
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-"Journey's End," Rose and the Duplicate Tenth Doctor deal with Darlig Ulv Stranden the best way they know how: they run. Meanwhile, a seventeenth-century mystery threatens to destroy Pete's World. Can the Doctor and Rose work together to save the multiverse?  Rose/OC, eventually Rose/TenII. (Featured on FF.net and Teaspoon).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Uncertainty Principle

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story primarily as a reaction to the characterisations of TenII and Rose. I'm a fan of ALL of the companions, especially the women, so Rose-bashing, River-bashing, Martha-bashing, etc., is particularly irritating to me. Moreover, a lot of TenPetals fics I've read here make Rose into this compliant, whingy, perpetually pregnant character that always goes along with what the Doctor (Ten) says or does. If that is your cuppa, then so be it. But stress from a thesis and a passion for hard sci-fi made me want to read something else.
> 
> This is my vision of what happened after Darlig Ulv Stranden. I always wanted to see how Rose negotiated the effects of time travel and her proper time, meaning how did she "grow up" after being separated from the Doctor? As for Ten II, as the Duplicate/Human Version of the Tenth Doctor, he has some major apologising to do: both Rose and Donna got screwed and he carries a lot of guilt as a result. Not to mention the question of Who am I that every regeneration (or partial regeneration) must answer for himself. How does he become human and still remain the Doctor?
> 
> As for Rose, I've introduced some competition for the Doctor in the form of another (male) character. I thought that in order for Rose to actually have a relationship with TenII as a human (not the alien superhero) and move on in the parallel world, she needs life experience romantically as well as intellectually. If you're a hardcore Ten/Rose shipper or Doctor/Rose shipper who cannot bear the thought of Rose having a relationship with someone else, even though it will eventually be TenII/Rose, this fic is not for you. If you're not a Rose fan, then again, then you probably won't like this one. If you're into companion bashing, then this is not a good fic for you. I do have some fun at Ten's expense, but nothing vitriolic or mean.
> 
> Finally, there will be discussions of PTSD in this story, so if this is a trigger, fair warning. I'm not a writer of graphic material, so most of this should be Teen-rated.
> 
> Now, Ami Lecteur, if you're not frightened, allons-y: read and review.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own and never will own "Doctor Who."

**Uncertainty Principle**

 

5.23 a.m. — Pete Tyler’s Mansion, London, Republic of Great Britain, August 18, 2.13  
  
Rose Tyler stared blankly at the white ceiling above her bed. A morning ritual dating back to her first morning “home” in “Pete’s World.” Exiled from her mates and neighbours at the Powell Estate in 2006 (or 20.9 in this universe), she spent a total of two years in prime-universe time and four years in this universe. Like a painting, the ceiling served as a reminder: Get back home to the Doctor.   
  
She did, six weeks ago. He sent her back and left with Donna and the TARDIS. He stayed with her on the Norwegian beach.    
  
Seven years ago, it had been difficult for the 20-year-old Rose to conceive of regeneration; a skinny dandy in a suit replaced the brusque Northerner in black leather and all ears. Now she had to contend with a half-regeneration down the hall and to the left. Same face, same thoughts, same everything except fully Time Lord, two hearts and a TARDIS.    
  
He told her what she had come all that way to hear: Rose Tyler, I —  
  
Then she kissed him. The Doctor stayed. The Time Lord “Prime” left.   
  
Even six weeks later, she repeated the same routine: wake up at quarter of five; stare at the ceiling to half five; shower and dress; take breakfast; leave for Torchwood.   
  
She hadn’t a clue what the Doctor did. Though she claimed that debriefing kept her busy — Earth’s Defence and all — she kept her interactions with the Doctor to a minimum. He did the same.   
  
Contrary to five years worth of fantasy and anticipation, she was not overjoyed at their reunion. During the first two weeks, she was confused: this Doctor, who was dressed in a blue suit and red Converses and displayed his true emotions for everyone to see, spoke only when addressed, using the rest of the time to study her. On seventeen different occasions, she caught him looking. The first six times, he blushed; the remaining eleven, he met her eyes in a silent challenge. I think he likes it, she thought. The frenetic Oncoming Gab showed itself only around the three-year-old Tony, who leapt at the chance of having his own alien Peter Pan armed only with a sonic screwdriver. Exploding peas and carrots and floating blocks; Marvel toys scattered about, driving Jackie and the maids mad with frustration. Ten of the surreptitious looks occurred whilst being chased by an irritated Welsh maid named Aelwen.    
  
The third and fourth weeks of his stay were equally infuriating as confusing. At the beginning of the third, Rose had a brief interaction with the Doctor at half-five in the morning.    
  
“Fascinating; I don’t seem to need as much sleep as a human. My heart rate is 60 beats per minute; I’ve timed it precisely.” he said proudly.   
  
Half-awake and yet to take her morning cuppa, Rose only managed an “Oh.” The Doctor turned back to his room and closed the door. No conversation, not even at breakfast, during which the Doctor regularly turned up his nose at beans on toast.  
  
“Puttin’ on airs, that one,” grumbled Jackie, as Pete sipped his tea and calmly read the London Times.  
  
Every morning thereafter at precisely half-five, the Doctor knocked on her door:   
  
“Rose, my heart rate is still 60 beats per minute!”  
  
“Rose, thank Rassilon — I still hate pears.”  
  
“Rose, is it terrible that I like edible ball bearings and jellybellies on cake?”   
  
Finally, the week previous:  
“Rose, there is no Ian Dury in this universe. Well, at least I have it bootleg on the sonic. See?” He activated setting 51B. Rose screamed, covering her ears in surprise and pain. Ian Dury, at one hundred decibels, half-five in the morning, was quite possibly illegal on fifty-seven planets.    
  
Not a minute later, Jackie climbed the staircase and promptly slapped him for waking the entire household up to Hit Me with Your Rhythm Stick. “Das ist gut, eh, you nutter?” The Doctor rubbed his cheek, glared hideously at Jackie and muttered something about nutloaf.    
  
The Doctor stopped the morning visits until the previous morning (five weeks and six days after the beach) when he appeared at her door. He said nothing, just stared into her eyes with the same look as he had during her first visit to Darlig Ulv Stranden. His skin was flushed and sweaty; instead of wearing the red and blue pinstriped pyjamas and brown dressing gown, he was dressed in black pants and a white vest.    
  
After a moment, she whispered, “What’s wrong, Doctor? Did you have a nightmare?” She knew from their time together on the TARDIS, and the little he had shared with her about his past, that he suffered from insomnia and night terrors. After two years at Torchwood and interning with the medical staff, she encountered a medical name for it: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.  
  
No response. His eyes dilated, vigilant.   
  
“Doctor, you’re scaring me. Please tell me.”   
  
The Doctor looked down at her bedclothes, or the lack thereof. Startled, she had not thought of putting her dressing gown over her light pink chemise. She looked down at her state of dress and blushed furiously. “Pink on yellow and pink,” he finally said with a smile.    
  
Rose exhaled a sigh of relief until he grabbed her and pulled her to him. She could feel his single heart pounding against their chests. “Run,” he growled and kissed her soundly, their lips smashing, his teeth colliding with hers. The Doctor released a stunned Rose and sauntered back to his room, shutting the door.    
  
Rose closed her door as a silent scream of frustration was forced out her throat.

* * *

 

5.30 a.m. Rose heard footfalls coming from a room down the hall and to the left, shuffling toward her door. Her heart began to thud in her chest — was he coming? What did he want? Why?  
  
The usual knock, precisely the same way.   
  
Rose knew she should answer the door — she wanted to. But she lay motionless in her bed. She brought the duvet over head, panting in short breaths.  
  
Same knock. Rose did not move.    
  
Suddenly, the lock on the door moved on its own accord, as though unlocked by a mysterious phantom. The doorknob turned and the Doctor sauntered in like a tomcat, his sonic screwdriver in his right hand. Thankfully, he was dressed in his usually ostentatious jimjams and even worse dressing gown. She, however, was dressed in an ice blue nightgown.   
  
“Doctor! Wha —?”  
  
He flashed her a manic smile. “Still got my superior Time Lord hearing!” The Doctor seized her hand, dragging her out of bed, down the corridor and into his room. The habitually nice-and-tidy, pastel-themed guest room died from exposure to a certain Time Lord. Clothes were strewn everywhere; bits and bobs of wires, microprocessors from a computer terminal and microcontrollers spread on the desk. The Doctor led Rose to his messed bed and pushed her gently down to sit. He took a chair opposite her and began to fiddle with integrated circuit chips.    
  
“Doctor, what is this? Laurie hasn’t been by?” she asked with a smirk.    
  
He looked up and tugged on his ear. “Uh, that would be the maid, yes? Um, well, after my latest project met an untimely end — human semi-conductor chips are rubbish — she refused to set foot in here. Blimey, just an exploding rubbish bin!”   
  
Rose smirked. “It didn’t just explode, did it?”  
  
“Well, no, the bed caught fire. See — new duvet.” Rose could just see scorch marks. “I don’t like it. The orange doesn’t match the green. My Sixth would have, mind.”   
  
She laughed. “Doctor, you’re bored!”   
  
He smiled. “Terribly.” It suddenly turned into a frown. “I don’t know what to do. Last time I was exiled off the TARDIS, I took showers, hid from papes and joined UNIT as a consultant. Now, I…I don’t even know this universe, let alone how I’d survive decades on Earth!”  
  
Rose pulled away from him. “I’m sorry, Doctor. This is my fault. I never should have asked you to change. Now you’re stuck without the TARDIS and Donna...” She moved to leave when he pulled her to face him in the chair.    
  
“Don’t leave,” he whispered. “Please don’t leave.”   
  
She took his hand in hers. “If you want.” He embraced her around the midriff.  
  
They stayed like that for several minutes until Rose cleared her throat, breaking the comfortable, uneasy silence. “I have work soon, so I…”  
  
“Yes, go, right,” the Doctor snarled. “Beans on bloody toast.”   
  
Rose felt a surge of anger rise from the pit of her chest. “What the hell does that mean?”  
  
The Doctor rose abruptly from his chair like a caged animal ready to strike. His left hand fingered the piece of TARDIS coral in his dressing gown pocket. “We were stranded at Darlig Ulv Stranden; now we're stranded at Pete's mansion. What do you want, Rose? I’m here; we’ve waited two years for this, now you won’t talk to me."   
  
Rose glared at him. “It’s been five years for me. And I didn’t wait, I came all that way to find you.”   
  
The Doctor laughed mirthlessly. “I’m not him. Yeah, I remember.”   
  
Rose took a deep breath. “Doctor, you are him. I’ve seen you regenerate, I saw three of you, I know it’s you. But you stayed and he left.”   
  
“And isn’t that good? That I stayed?”  
  
“Yes, but you are him and you’re not. Doctor, you’ve…you said that you think like him, yeah?”   
  
He seemed to consider question, then looked into her eyes. “Well, in every way that matters. My consciousness, as far as I can tell, is Time Lord, but my body is human. My emotions are human, more or less. It’s all so…bonkers, but I’m a Time Lord in corporeal form.”    
  
Rose nodded as if expecting that answer. “Then are you the same Doctor who is Time Lord…?”  
  
The Doctor nodded slightly. “Yes and no. Obviously, you saw me rid Earth of the Daleks, which I’m not sorry for, by the way, despite what he says. I’ll grow old and will never regenerate. Even if…even if Gallifrey exists here, I would never be welcome on Gallifrey because I’m part-human.”   
  
“But you were exiled here. Some part of you did not want to be here, Doctor.”    
  
“Did you? Rose, you were ready to leave your parents, your brother, your job for perhaps a trip or two in the TARDIS. I….”  
  
“Moved on,” finished Rose.    
  
“…Couldn’t let you ruin your life,” finished the Doctor. He grasped her hands in his. “Rose, believe it or not, but timelessness is overrated. People change, they grow, they… move on. They find someone else.”   
  
Rose gulped and nodded angrily. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I — I should really go.” She turned and walked out his room, despite his quiet pleas to return. She most certainly did not look back.


	2. Fire and Ice, Man and Time Lord

**Fire and Ice, Man and Time Lord**

 

Two weeks following their argument and Rose keeping conversation brief and civil, the Doctor aka James Adric Wilfred Noble moved out of the Tyler Mansion and let a flat in Chelsea.  

  
Three months passed. For as large as it was — courtesy of Harriet Jones and Pete Tyler — it felt cramped and dull. As he had done in his third incarnation, he worked as a part-time scientific consultant at Torchwood. Honestly, he hated it — cataloguing useless space rubbish and hairdryers was not, in his opinion, a good use of a Time Lord’s, well, time. He hated the ties — not Venusian silk — he hated the fake fabric of his suits, he hated, loathed these blue jeans that were too tight in the front. It made him feel like a skinny Bruce Springsteen without the sex appeal.   _Thanks, Donna. A brainy Boss — nah, doesn’t work._ The cotton in this universe made his skin itch. At least they gave him an entire storage for the growing TARDIS.  
  
It would all have been at least tolerable had Rose been with him. The Doctor took a drink of Strawberry Vitex. It tasted like red 56-flavoured pop.  
  
Rose had moved on from him —  _them — the Other_ but briefly succumbing to temptation. Anyone would, given the option between a free life in the stars and a universe in which she had never existed. No wonder why she was awkward around him. In the papes, the  _Mirror_ and  _Star-Struck_ — a guilty pleasure he now shared with Donna — she had been photographed with a red-haired pretty boy movie star named Edward something or other.   _Blimey, he had to be ginger._ Good for her. At least his name wasn’t Adam. He saw one of the pictures and could not help but notice that she was no longer a pudgy nineteen-year-old Estate chav, but a slim, toned, sexy nearly-thirty blonde: she was dressed in strapless blue chiffon and aquamarines whilst the pretty boy was dressed in some nondescript tuxedo.  _He had to be ginger._  
  
The Doctor discovered that he was, in every sense, a human male with humany desires. Over the course of three months, he bought every online special issue featuring the Vitex Heiress Rose Tyler. His Fortuna. He kept them as easy-access reading material: a tablet in the WC, a second next to the shower, a third on the end table next to his bed and the mess of circuits on the floor, and another in the sitting room. She was there to greet him every morning at five, to lounge enticingly on his sofa at noon and to wish him goodnight at half-one. If he slept at all.   
  
For a charity function (no doubt as part of her cover), she agreed to do a photo shoot and an interview. In an article entitled “Sexy and Smart: Vitex Heiress Talks Gravity,” Rose was, according to the  _Mirror_ , attending part-time as a maths and physics student at University College London. She hoped to do research in quantum loop gravity upon graduation. “Well, it’s a good  _theory_ ,” muttered the Doctor, as he scanned the article for the four hundred sixty-fifth time. No mention of Mr. Eddie Tuxedo.   _Blimey, he had to be ginger._ The thick, black-rimmed spectacles that he actually needed slipped down his long nose glistened with sweat, despite it being nearly Christmas.   
  
He hated himself; he was bored with no companion.  
  
As he was reading the latest gossip on Rose Tyler, his Vitexfone alerted him to an incoming message. He reluctantly closed the “Rose’s World App” and pressed the Vitexfone app. The video opened to a normally unreadable Pete Tyler, a ginger dressed in a black suit and dark blue Oxford.   
  
“Doctor,” he greeted.    
  
“Pete Tyler. I turned in last week’s reports!” he exclaimed with an annoyed tone.   
  
“Yes, thank you, Doctor. This is something different. We’re in need of James Noble,” Pete remarked, his mouth upturned in a slight smile.   
  
“Torchwood or your home?”  
  
“Torchwood.”   
  


* * *

  
  
The Doctor was wallowing in the fire and ice of his self-pity. James Noble, the newest and arguably most eccentric Torchwood consultant, had in short time made a name for himself as an expert in engineering physics and cosmology. Rare was such a combination: most scientists — the MIT, Normale Sup, ETH Zurich and Oxbridge-educated included — were exclusively theoreticians or experimentalists. Dr Noble was both; some even asserted his scientific skills to be on par with those of Enrico Fermi or even Sir Isaac. Additionally, he demonstrated competence in chemistry, exobiology, French, Italian, Chinese, Assiniboine and Yoruba.  
  
A tall, slender man in his late-thirties, James Noble’s ordinary appearance contrasted with his extraordinary mind: loose blue jeans, Beatles tee shirt underneath a grey Oxford and black leather jacket; red Converses; silver stud in his left ear; black-rimmed spectacles. He’d let his unruly hair — brown with streaks of red — grow out a bit and kept his sideburns. He never wore a wristwatch.  
  
A typically brisk London day in December, the wind cut through him like shards of glass. He never remembered to wear extra layers; it was only five months ago that weather became of any importance to him. His numb fingers managed to pull out his Torchwood ID and flash it at the security check. He proceeded through the large black and white marble lobby to the shiny stainless steel lift marked ‘North’ and pressed the “55” for the corporate level. A moment later, the doors opened and he entered reluctantly. His  _not_ -claustrophobia had not improved in five months; adjusting to a cramped, three-dimensional space would take time, he supposed.    
  
“Hold the lift, please!” called out a female voice.    
  
_Fantastic,_ James thought,  _even less space in a two-metre by two-metre metal box._  Before he could push the button to close the doors —  _rude and not ginger_ — a small hand held the door. A beautiful blonde in a black suit and ivory blouse entered. “Ta,” she responded as she also pressed “55.”   
  
Oh, Rassilon! Oh Fortuna, Rose Tyler! 

 

 

The multiverse hated him.

Next to him in a cramped lift — even for fifteen seconds — was Rose Tyler in a well-cut black suit. Her hair was the same: long and blonde. Her smell was  _exactly_  the same: roses and apple grass. Her pencil skirt was past the knee with a view of muscular calves. The ivory silk blouse gave him a glimpse of the pale skin of her neck. Her heels made her seven centimetres taller than her normal height. He gulped.

What he would give for a binary vascular system right now.

It was not as though he had not seen her before; he passed by her office often enough. James habitually worked from home or in his laboratory on North minus two, so it was not  _everyday_. But he never really spoke to her. Every time he tried, his human body literally failed him: when he was the Doctor, he had a gift of the gab and prattled on until Martha or Donna told him to shut it; when James tried to speak, his tongue refused to move. So he ran away or made himself invisible.

Ten seconds passed. James's palms were getting sweatier, which he shoved in his pockets; his heart rate increased well beyond 60 beats per minute, his breathing was shallow. If she only knew what kind of thoughts he had been having about her, about  _them_. Had they been on the TARDIS, not only would the ship have censored his thoughts, but very possibly would have used sanitizers for bio-hazardous materials on him. When he was the Doctor, he simply would not allow any less-than-appropriate decorum. He didn't do domestic. Fraternisation with lesser species was expressly forbidden for Time Lords and rightly so; not only did humanoids have difficulty conceptualising regeneration and semi-corporeal, extra-dimensional existence, but they moreover lacked the same fourth and fifth-dimensional (among others) senses that Time Lords possessed from the loom. A human or humanoid could easily cock up history on a number of planets and galaxies. By the 51st century, the Time Agency had done centuries worth of damage that his eighth and ninth selves failed to correct.

Not that the Doctor had ever done  _that_ , of course. Time Lords were designed to be above sullying their collective hands in history. So boring;  _so four-dimensional_. But then the Time War came and the Doctor made the choice that silenced the multiverse. He was the last: the last to carry on the traditions, history, science, arts and letters and culture of an eons-old, now-extinct civilisation. Warrior, scientist, former Lord President, the Doctor became staunchly Time Lord at the very moment when Rose Tyler decided to continue with him on the TARDIS.

The Doctor was an idea. James Noble was a common boffin infatuated with his billionaire boss's daughter.

"Hello, Doctor," said Rose.

"Errrr, hi," replied James quietly.  _See, he was brave._

"How've you been?" she asked politely.

"Fine, fine. I'm always fine. How–how are you, Rose Tyler?"

She smiled faintly. "Same, ta."

The lift doors opened, having arrived at Pete Tyler's corporate level.

Sod his claustrophobia.

_James slammed his sweaty hand on the emergency button, trapping them both in the lift. He closed the distance between them, seized Rose's head in his hands and properly snogged her, backing her up against the lift wall. As he pinned her with his lips, he let his hands wander from her head, past her shoulders to her silk-covered breasts and finally to the edge of her Armani skirt, fingertips caressing her hose-covered thigh. She put her hands to his sideburns and moaned into their snog; he pushed her skirt up, his lips moving down her chin to that tantalizing patch of skin of her neck…_

"Doctor? The lift's stopped," interrupted Rose. She was standing next to him, prim and proper, looking at him as she had when asking how he was.

James blinked through fogged up spectacles. "Sorry, what?"

"I assume you're here for the meeting?" asked Rose with a raised eyebrow.

"Uh, yeah, yes, right. The lift. I was just thinking that Pete could improve the efficiency of the lift by using an extended–" Rose interrupted him by exiting the lift and into the corridor leading to Pete's office.


	3. Moonrocks or Impossible-rocks?

**Moonrocks or Impossible-rocks?**

 

After an impromptu trip to the loo, James Noble entered the large conference room, where Pete Tyler, Rose Tyler, Jake Simmonds, a newly-arrived ex-Army Ranger named John O'Reilly from the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Manhattan and two others were already seated and waiting.

Pete looked up and gestured with his hand. "Dr Noble, please join us."

James came in and sat down across from Rose. He noticed that the Ranger, as he called him, sat next to his precious girl.

"Well, let's get on with it. I'll let Drs Frédérique Monton from the Institut Pasteur and Linus Magnussen from Copenhagen University explain."

Dr Magnussen spoke first. "Our colleagues from Copenhagen and Stockholm recently performed a restoration of Tycho Brahe's observatory at Uraniborg. It's located on the Sound. A few weeks ago, they found a piece of rock a short distance from the observatory that resembles Pele's Tears on Hawaii. One would think that someone had just dropped it or recently visited Hawaii. But something…happened…." His light Danish accent lilted on the last syllable. "Two of the masons have become critically ill with an unknown vector. We have taken spore samples to the Institut Pasteur, the CDC and the Ministry of Public Health. So far, they haven't been able to identify it. What they have been able to determine is that the spores are not terrestrial."

"Professor, do they know where they came from?" interjected O'Reilly.

"No. We know that they're not terrestrial because there was no trace of carbon present in the analysis," responded Magnussen.

"Volcanic then?" concluded Rose.

"Precisely. But the rock structure itself does not correspond to any known geologic composition on Earth. They weren't able to date its age using Rubidium-Strontium Isochrons."

James's eyes flew open in disbelief. "What? That's impossible! They must have made a mistake." He turned to Pete, Jake and Rose, conspicuously ignoring O'Reilly. "There are only two conclusions: an error in the analysis — too little strontium present — or it's as old, if not older than the universe."

Pete put his hand up to silence the Oncoming Tirade. "Let Dr Noble analyse the spores. He has, shall we say, special equipment that may assist your colleagues."

Dr Monton shook her head. "I'm afraid that is impossible, Director Tyler. It is highly contagious and we cannot jeopardise public safety. The spores are being held securely in a facility at the Institut."

"Let us come to Paris then," said Jake. "We can make our inquiries there."

Magnussen and Monton exchanged looks. "Let us contact the Institut," she replied.

"No, I'll do that," said Pete. "In the meanwhile, Doctor, Rose, John and Jake, pack a bag. You'll have your train tickets to Paris within the hour. Thank you, Agents, Professors."

Everyone rose to leave. John brushed his fingers along Rose's arm and whispered in her ear. She nodded in reply. Thanks to his superior hearing, James overheard him say to his Rose that  _"I'll pack my usual overnight and be by your place at seven. Dinner and a movie?"_

 _Usual overnight? Was this now a — a thing?_ James glared at the back of the American's head. John O'Reilly was everything he was not: whilst he was shorter than James — a full four centimetres James smugly noted — he was all large muscles and Rugby.  _They play fake football over there,_ thought James. His sandy-blond hair was standard military, short and neatly combed, his suit was charcoal grey with a starched Oxford, his black dress shoes shined like mirrors.  _He was probably a bloody model for bloody West Point._

James coughed to get John and Rose's attention. "So, John, we haven't properly been introduced. I'm the Doctor." He extended his hand to the ex-Ranger, who took it formally, but courteously. Rose couldn't help but notice that the Doctor had not used his full name in greeting.

"John O'Reilly. Jumped across the pond from New York. Guys in the Service called me 'Cowboy' 'cos I'm from Wyoming. You're James Noble, right? I've heard of you by reputation, even in New York. Director Tyler's genie in the lab?"

_Cowboy?! Cowboy?_

The Doctor smiled thinly. "Yes, that's me, the  _genius_  in the lab. So…what do they do in Wyoming? Last I recall of it, the sheep were still quite disgruntled. That was in 2000 on a sort-of accidental trip I took to America."

Rose patted John's arm before he could respond. "John, we should get going. I have last-minute paperwork to do and I know you do." She looked at him pointedly.

He smiled at his companion. "Yes, ma'am. See ya later, Rose. Nice to meet you, Doctor Noble."

As  _Cowboy_  excused himself, the Doctor stepped toward Rose. "So, Rose, is he your new trainee?" he asked as though 'trainee' had taken another meaning along the lines of 'housecat.'

Rose glared at him.  _Oh, now he can talk._  "No, he's an agent in his own right. Exchange programme. Experimental. Extra-terrestrial affairs in New York."

The Doctor nodded grandly. "Ah yes, the sheep must be so lonely in Wyoming that they migrated to New York. Crop circles, exsanguinations and the like."

Rose's look turned murderous. Channelling the fury of Jackie Tyler tempered with the diplomacy of Pete Tyler, she managed to ask civilly, "Doctor, what can I do for you?"

He'd gone too far. Taking a deep breath to regain some semblance of his composure, James spoke quietly, "Rose, I'm sorry. I just —"

Rose shook her head. "Forget it, Doctor. It's in the past." He watched as she brushed a strand of errant golden hair behind her ear. It took all of his self-control not to reach out and tuck it for her. She gazed at him for a brief moment, as if she were going to tell him something important.

"I have to go, Doctor. See you tomorrow."

James looked at her as though she had stabbed him in his single heart. Maybe she had. "Yeah, see you tomorrow."

"Doctor, a word?" called out a masculine voice. It was Pete Tyler, who had been waiting for some time.

Rose took the opportunity to slip by them, nodding to Pete as she exited the conference room, whilst James's eyes followed her movements helplessly. Pete cleared his throat. "Doctor, there is a problem…with your reports."

The Doctor examined him like a bug under a microscope. "How do you mean? They were accurate and rather detailed!"

"Doctor, a scientific study that no one except you can understand, along with citations of a study performed by…." he stared at the paper in his hand, "…Kilhauwgagafawn of Vertox 6 doesn't qualify as a report. Your tardiness is also a bit of an issue. I've brought in some assistance, a personal assistant, if you will."

"It's Kuhagawtuwtxz of Verlosian 6, Pete Tyler, and I don't need a personal assistant. I'm 899 years old and was in school longer than you, your parents and grandparents were collectively alive!"

Pete glowered at the insubordinate part-Time Lord. "Right, you will have a personal assistant, and that is final."

The Doctor rolled his eyes like a thirteen-year-old. "Fine, who's the personal assistant?"

Pete smiled brightly, reminding him of a certain blonde's grin. "She's in my office, waiting not five minutes." He gently guided the irritated alien like a small, spoilt child into his office.

"James Noble, meet Donna Noble, your personal assistant. Other than your surname, I'm sure you'll find you have quite a bit in common."


	4. An Endless Aching Need

**An Endless Aching Need**

 

Rose returned to her small flat in Kensington that her father had bought for her six months after her arrival in this universe. At first, she used it primarily to escape her mum’s constant hovering and endless battles between them over the Dimension Cannon. Whilst Jackie would protect both Rose and the Doctor with her life, loosing her only daughter to the madman in the box was not something she relished. Once Tony was born, Jackie’s protectiveness only grew worse. Now, she used it to escape the memories of the Doctor.    
  
On days like this, weeks before the holidays, she missed Mickey terribly. Though Time had caused them to grow apart romantically, Mickey became the older brother she never had: as only children from a rough South London estate — Mickey from a broken home — they relied on each other. After Jimmy Stone, which Rose referred to with Mickey, her mum and Shareen as AW —  _After Wanker_ — they became a content couple. Mickey found work as a mechanic; Rose went to Henrik’s. Every so often, Mickey and Rose saved a few quid for a weekend in Cambridge or Oxford, to visit the places that were normally forbidden to two chavs from Peckham.    
  
Then she met the Doctor.    
  
Rose knew Mickey felt betrayed and cast aside for yet another mysterious bad-boy. Whilst they were never truly in love, Rose left Mickey and the Powell Estate behind for a life of adventure and new opportunity. Mickey hated her for it. He recalled the mess he was left with AW; Rose ‘escaped’ the Powell Estate, only to be unceremoniously "returned" once Jimmy was finished with her, battered and bruised. When she disappeared for an entire year (twelve months instead of twelve hours thanks to the Doctor’s crap driving), he had been questioned, cautioned, nicked, released and nearly dismissed from his job. Though she was unaware of the passage of time, the 19-year-old Rose had not considered the consequences of her action.    
  
It was not until the Doctor was drawn to a  _certaine Pompadour_ in shiny gems, silk gowns and courtly etiquette that Rose comprehended what she had, in her impulsiveness and immaturity, done to Mickey. She spent a better part of a week apologising to Mickey and making amends for her behaviour. Once they landed in Pete’s World for the first time, their paths diverged irrevocably. He had found his own way and no longer wanted to pine after a Rose Tyler ever distracted by the newest bad-boy.  
  
During her separation from the Doctor, their adolescent romance fueled by fear grew into a deep bond of friendship. Shortly before her dimensional jumps to save the multiverse, Mickey pulled her aside. “Are you sure you want to go back?” he had asked.    
  
_Of course she’d been sure. It was the Doctor._  Hindsight is twenty-twenty. Mickey knew, along with everyone else, that the Doctor would send her back to Pete’s World. It was inevitable; even she knew as early as her first encounter with Sarah Jane Smith that the Doctor would take her back to Earth.   _Humans decay. You wither and you die. Imagine watching that happening to someone you…_  
  
What, Doctor?  
  
Then came the Metacrisis Doctor and the Doctor-Donna. Rose couldn’t help feeling a little —  _immensely_  — jealous of Donna. She was  _brilliant, extraordinary, the most important woman in the universe._  She was a human with a Time Lord consciousness. Donna was, with the Metacrisis, the only being left in Universe Prime that could share Gallifrey with the Doctor. Rose knew through his deafening silence on the matter how much Gallifrey and its loss meant to him. On one hand, she was grateful that Donna would continue to travel with him so that he would never be alone. On the other hand, if he invited other companions on board the TARDIS, why couldn’t she have stayed?  
  
Because no one wants to be the Tin Dog.   
  
At least he spared her that humiliation. But what of his “twin,” his Other self? After witnessing so many possible outcomes, jump after jump, she knew that allowing the Daleks to live and possibly attack Earth upon retreat would have proven a holocaust. Secretly, she, along with Mickey, her mother, Jack, Sarah Jane and Martha, approved of what the Metacrisis did in a state of panic and traumatic stress. As Bad Wolf, she had herself turned the entire fleet of 400,000 Daleks, with their Emperor, into atoms floating in the vacuum of space. Rose knew, from the knowledge that she had retained after absorbing the Vortex, that there had been no alternative. The Time War had to remain time-locked. But he had also been stranded on Darlig Ulv Stranden because he was born from  _blood, anger and revenge._  He could not be trusted on his own.   
  
The  _New New New_  Doctor told her what she so ached to hear. Yet he also told her that people change, they move on and they find someone else. That was precisely what the Doctor did post-Canary Wharf. He found Donna, Martha and possibly others, unlike what he said (or did not say) on the beach. The Metacrisis was the Doctor in every way it mattered, except his timeline was much shorter than the Other’s: instead of centuries left, he had decades. But the Doctor does not do domestic; he does not  _grow — he is_ ; he does not stay behind with others —  _he leaves them behind_.    
  
A few days after the beach, Jackie comforted her as best she could, gently cajoling her to talk to the New New New Doctor. But what would Rose say,  _what could she say?_  In an incredibly sick, evil way, Davros was right: she finally saw the Doctor’s soul. He could never be bound to anything — to anyone except in his capacity as  _the Doctor_.    
  
Rose sank down on the sofa, work clothes and winter coat, trying to hold back a sob. She loved the Doctor; she always would. He opened her eyes to a vast world that a girl from South London could only read about in a H.G. Wells novella. He was her mentor, her best mate. He saved her, her mum’s, Mickey’s, her dad’s lives. But could she continue to risk her heart for a man whose existence meant to wander? Jimmy Stone may have been a wanker, but he taught her one vital lesson: a girl can’t go down with the ship and expect to live.    
  
_Have a fantastic life, Rose. Do that for me._  During their separation, Rose did well for herself: shortly after her farewell to the Doctor, she passed the entrance exam for the University College London and became a top student in physics and maths. She was in her last year of undergraduate study when the stars began disappearing. Upon her return, she successfully petitioned the University to allow her to complete her last year without time penalty. Once she graduated the following June, she planned to take leave from Torchwood to pursue postgraduate study at Cambridge. As the British government had officially classified the Dimension Cannon Project, the Physics Department made a discreet invitation to its programme for the following year.   
  
If she couldn’t be among the stars, she could still watch and protect them from Earth.  
  
Jackie, of course, could not cease bragging about her daughter,  _the Cambridge physicist_. Even her father, who was not the Pete who died in 1987 and did not know her until 2.06, had a big smile upon reading her acceptance letter.  
  
There was no such thing as an ordinary human, the Doctor once said.    
  
Rose hoped that he would one day be proud of her.


	5. The Cowboy's Tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This continues a three-part storyarc regarding the Rose/John O'Reilly backstory. Since John is a former sergeant and Army Ranger, his language and POV is rather colourful compared to those of the other characters. Though I use British spelling throughout, his voice is decidedly American because he bleeds red, white and blue. A couple words for non-native Am Eng speakers who may be unfamiliar with military slang:
> 
> Self-Licking Ice Cream Cone = referring to bureaucratic and political circle-jerking; issuing orders with no apparent goal in mind.
> 
> Diego Garcia = secret base in the Indian Ocean; monitors all covert activity (and then some) in the Middle East, East Africa and parts of Asia.
> 
> DS = drill sergeant

**The Cowboy's Tale**

 

Black sport bag in hand, dressed in standard jeans, white tee shirt, black blazer and a Denver Broncos cap, the ex-Ranger turned FBI Agent John O'Reilly entered the left and pressed the "36" for Rose's high-rise flat. He had been regularly visiting her "off-hours" for the past three months. Their affair was an open secret at Torchwood: though there were no official rules prohibiting fraternisation, both John and Rose proceeded cautiously and kept their relationship slow and quiet. The first American FBI agent on exchange dating the director's daughter would raise eyebrows not only in the British government, but also in the Director's office in Washington. Since the Cyber Wars of 20.6, the US Government harboured immense distrust of Pete Tyler and the British 'Cyberbarons.' Rose Tyler could cost him his position at the FBI, if not worse.  
  
Not that there was any love lost between him and his superiors. As a former decorated Army first sergeant who was awarded the purple heart and silver star for bravery during a skirmish with the Cybermen at their conversion factory outside of Boston, he vividly recalled the lack of foresight in the orders given by colonels and brigadier generals who, after the Wars, resumed their positions in the FBI, the Congress and the Pentagon.  _A goddamn Self-Licking Ice Cream Cone_. Afterward, the US adopted a stricter policy of isolationism and rewrote history to reflect that the careless actions of the British 'technocrats' led by John Lumic, who by proxy included Pete Tyler, caused countless deaths worldwide.  
  
The Torchwood-FBI Exchange was created in 2.11 to spy on Pete Tyler. John O'Reilly, a forty-year-old, maverick ex-Ranger, was oddly selected to be the first FBI attaché in London. Some paper-pusher from Cardiff, an Ianto Jones, was sent to New York. John applied on a whim, after a mutual pissing contest between him and the DC police chief over disposing of Cybers (Cybermen) led to a formal reprimand by his Section Chief. His nickname Cowboy was not simply due to his origins as a rancher's boy from Laramie, Wyoming. John was known to single-handedly disarm Cybers and cyber-terrorists, leading to standoffs worthy of the OK Corral. He had been suspended twice for excessive force and improper procedure. But perhaps more notoriously, John received an honourable discharge that came rather abruptly before a promotion to sergeant major and an assignment to Diego Garcia. The US government classified the incident in question and John was ordered to never speak of it.  
  
The police chief, Daniel McQueen, whom John and his fellow agents called 'Handjob' McQueen after the porn star, approved of John's methods — he just wanted all of the credit. When he was chosen to go to London, John thought that Handjob had pulled a few strings to get him out of sight. It turned out that the FBI and the Pentagon could not hack Tyler's defence systems and needed an on-site spy. John was given a choice: be a good soldier and go to London or loose his discharge (and benefits) from the military and FBI. He thought about his father, Jack, a former rancher ill with Multiple Sclerosis, whose wife — John's mother — had passed away when John was seven, and who worshiped John's status as a war hero and defender of American freedom. Losing his benefits and knowing the truth about his discharge would break his father's heart (and his bank account). John's high school sweetheart, now ex-wife, left him after his deployment overseas back in 20.1.  
  
John arrived in London during the beginning of the Darkness in 2.12. Pete Tyler and his small Torchwood group immediately earned his respect, even if they were weary to trust him. As for his 'primary job,' John falsified reports to Quantico and took pleasure in bullshitting the brass about Torchwood's capabilities. After several failed jumps and the deaths of several good British soldiers and Torchwood agents, Pete felt he had no choice but to take a risk and send John on the Dimension Cannon field team: his daughter and Mickey, who had become like a son to him, had nearly been killed four times.  
  
Rose Tyler was an enigma that never ceased to amaze him. John had been sceptical at first; the boss's daughter, a physics student at university without any formal military or police training, was leading the away missions. But Mickey and Jake defended her, saying she'd been trained by the best. After his first mission, it had become apparent: in the wake of a Dalek ambush, Rose not only single-handedly shot and killed two Daleks, but had pulled an injured Torchwood man twice her size to safety. Like him, she was the first to make each jump and the first to run into a dangerous situation. She ran like the wind. The military always said that women were a liability in combat; Rose Tyler put some Rangers to shame.  
  
The shift from colleagues and blood brothers to lovers came two jumps before Rose found the Doctor in Universe Prime. By this time, in any universe, the Daleks and Cybers knew who Rose Tyler was and set out to exterminate her as an associate of the Doctor. Had John not shot the Dalek behind her, she would have never made it to Donna or her family. After the debriefing and Pete's uncharacteristic outburst of anger toward Rose for her carelessness, John took her back to her flat where they ended up 'celebrating' with a night of adrenalin-fuelled shagging on her sofa. John knew the rush; following an encounter with the Cybers, the guys in his platoon — himself included — wanked in the woods or, if they happened to be near civilisation, bought a prossie for the night. John certainly did not mind the sex — she was beautiful, smart and arguably better than his right hand. She, however, regretted it the morning after.  
  
That's when she told him about the Doctor. She was going home to her universe.  
  
At the time, John wouldn't admit that he hated the fucker. It was better to think of him as a fictional character, a sort of Batman that saved the day when the world needed him and then promptly disappeared from sight. So John and Rose kept a professional distance knowing that  _she was going home_. On the final mission, John stayed behind with Jake and monitored the Dimension Cannon's control systems.  
  
Then she returned with the Doctor and ended up at John's flat roughly two months later. Much to John's disappointment, they did not celebrate her return with a comfortable shag in his bed; instead, Rose shared what had transpired, or rather, what she  _thought_ had transpired between her and the Doctor. She said that the Doctor had moved on and had stranded her with a human 2.0 version (he still didn't understand how the hell this regeneration bullshit worked). The part-human Doctor did not seem to want her, either. But upon meeting the man in the flesh earlier in the afternoon, John knew that the Doctor was clearly interested in Rose and did not bother hiding his hostility.  
  
_Good; the feeling's mutual, clowndick._  
  
As a human, the Doctor, aka James Noble, aka Tony Stark Wannabe, was unnerving. His physical appearance was that of a mid-thirties lab geek-gamer who regularly jerked off to Dungeons and Dragons in his parents' basement. However, the Doctor's eyes told a primordial song of hellfire and brimstone. Don't fuck around with fire; you'll get burned, his father used to say. But John had seen a lot of fires in his life, even starting some of them. Rose was worth being burned.  
  


* * *

  
  
Rose opened the door to a smiling John, black sport bag in hand. "Hey, no kiss?" he asked cheekily.  
  
She rolled her eyes and put a finger to her chin. "Hmm, did you finish your report?"  
  
John nodded. "Agent ass bent over, wiped and clean, ma'am."  
  
Rose laughed, shaking her head. "I have to learn some of this American lingo."  
  
She began to move toward him when John grabbed her by the waist, gently pushing them into her flat, closing the door with his foot. He guided her body against it and snogged her. "Mmm, been wanting to do that all day," he murmured into her mouth.  
  
She smiled — tongue in teeth — traced his five o'clock shadow with her index finger. "Is that so, Agent O'Reilly?"  
  
"That is, Agent Tyler." He broke the kiss and worked his way down her neck to the cleft of her neck and shoulder and suckled gently. "In fact, I've been thinking about more along the lines…" He fiddled with her pink pullover, his left hand playing with the hem. His right hand was firmly on her covered breast.  
  
Rose moaned. "I thought we were going slow…The Doctor."  
  
John stopped and made a face. "You're right." He moved to stroke her hair. "You're beautiful, you know that?"  
  
She put her hand on his muscular chest, stroking softly. "You're a good man, John O'Reilly."  
  
He pecked her on the lips. "Rose, you deserve better than some arrogant squirting dick."  
  
Rose looked at him pointedly. "I can't imagine who you could mean by that."  
  
"Sorry, ma'am. Jus' callin' 'em as I see 'em," John replied, exaggerating his Western accent like she loved. Chicks love accents. She could see the molten intensity rising in his eyes, like blue flames, only seen in times of war and carnage. Rose shivered.  
  
"Shall we eat?" John asked.  
  
"Yeah. We can order take-away curry at the restaurant down the street."  
  


* * *

  
  
After living in London for two years, John's list of top four pleasures made room for Indian take-out and snogging Rose Tyler (the other two being the Denver Broncos and lying to his superiors at the FBI), plenty of which occurred during the night's rather dull new Transformers movie. John was quite proud of himself for having made it to "third base": he managed to not only achieve a hot and heavy session of snogging and petting during the second act, but Rose removed their shirts in the heat of passion, allowing him to fondle and nip her perfect breasts before they went to bed at half-ten.  
  
He took the sofa.  
  
John tossed and turned, too uncomfortable and frustrated to even think of sleeping (not that he did often), remembering vividly her smooth skin, her aroused state of partial undress and the way her hands felt on his bare chest. Although he fundamentally understood Rose's reluctance to renew their sexual relationship, he nevertheless wondered how long he could tolerate the clowndick intruding on their lives. John looked at the clock; it was half-two, roughly three hours before they had to arrive at Saint Pancras. At least the trip to Paris sounded promising: weird alien shit and the la vie en rose with Rose Tyler.  
  
He had always wanted to take a girl to the Seine and the Eiffel Tower.  
  
Suddenly, he heard moaning and whimpering in the master bedroom.  
  
"No, no, don't!" a feminine voice cried.  
  
John threw off the covers and rushed into her bedroom. He watched as she thrashed about the sheets and duvet, as though she were running toward someone. Sitting gently on the edge of the bed, he whispered, "Rose? Rose, wake up." As he brushed the sweaty hair from her face, Rose's eyes opened in forgotten fear.  
  
"John? Wha - ? Why are you in my room?"  
  
"Sorry, you were having a nightmare," he said.  
  
"Oh. Sorry, I must have woken you," Rose replied in a confused, sleepy voice.  
  
John smiled faintly. "It's okay. Do you remember what it was about? Talk about it?"  
  
Rose silently searched her memory. "I don't remember," she finally said. John looked at her, sweeping his eyes over her face. Was she lying?  
  
"Okay, well, I'll just…" John turned to leave, torn between respecting her privacy and wanting to help soothe her terror.  
  
"Wait," Rose called out. "You…you don't have to go. You can sleep here, if you want. I mean, if it's too forward, you don't need…"  
  
"Rose," he interjected, silencing her with his finger. "There's nothing I'd want more." With that, he scooted between the sheets, curling up behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, the cool blue silk moving along his inner arms and bare chest like water waves. Their legs intertwined, John's lips brushing her right ear. "I'll keep you safe. If all else fails, I got my Smith and Wesson in the living room. Could put a bullet in the Boogeyman or whatever the fuck it is. If it's a Succubus with great tits, well, you're on your own."  
  
Rose turned in his arms to face him. "What?" she laughed, her tongue sliding between her teeth.  
  
He grinned. "Ah, the Rose Tyler I know appears. You're tough, the toughest woman I know."  
  
"And the toughest man?"  
  
John smirked. "That would be my father's belt, followed by my DS. Guy was a scary mo-fo."  
  
Rose smiled. "Your dad or your DS?"  
  
John laughed, squeezing Rose between his arms. "Both. One day, I'll tell you the story of when I accidentally set the cattle fence on fire."  
  
Rose hummed in response, her eyes closing. She moved closer to kiss John's lips. He met her halfway and deepened the kiss. He moaned, willing his body to some sense of control. John broke the kiss. "Rose, we should stop. I dunno that I can…."  
  
She slid out of his arms and smiled seductively at him. Lifting her nightgown over her head and tossing it on the floor beneath the bed, she replied softly, "Who says I want to stop?"  
  
They stared in each other's eyes for a moment -  _are we going to cross the line? What happens afterward? Will she/I regret this?_ Finally, John pulled her to him in a lover's embrace, kissing and nuzzling her neck before rolling her beneath him **.**


	6. Back to Work

**Back to Work**

 

Rose sat at the table, showered and dressed in a blue and white pinstripe pants suit and white vest, hair pulled back, sipping her tea as John finished getting ready for their trip to the Institut Pasteur. The previous night was nice. She smiled slightly. Unlike her previous lovers — only two to be exact — John was considerate and passionate. He never hid what or whom he wanted.  
  
Then she thought of the Doctor. He would no doubt know. What would he think? Should she care? Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she took another sip of tea. It wasn't as if she was cheating on the Doctor with John; after all, he made it very clear on the beach and in his room that he did not want to be involved with her. He probably wouldn't care.  
  
Upon their reunion, she had been so sure that Doctor would have acted upon what he said on the beach. Yet he never did. Instead, he blew the usual hot and cold: he kissed her, twice, told her that he could spent his life with her, if she wanted, and then informed her that people move on. The colour of Rose's face turned from a lover's rosy pink to a dejected ashen white. The human Doctor was stranded here; had he been able to choose, he would have certainly stayed on the TARDIS. Like his fully Time Lord counterpart, he would have continued to travel the universe, invited the occasional new companion or two and left them once he became bored or they became infatuated with him. Human or not, he would certainly resume his life of wandering once this universe's TARDIS finished growing.  
  
_-How long are you going to stay with me?_  
  
-Forever.  
  
Well, that's what I thought. Rose remembered that day. The Doctor had taken her to the planet of the pterodactyls at sunrise. As they watched them fly, the Doctor slid his hand in his and held it for a solid hour. She felt guilty; she did promise him forever. She would have kept on travelling with him until either one of them died, regenerated or was left behind. In fact, she left her parents, her brother, Torchwood, John, to be with the Doctor.   
  
_In forty years time, fifty, there'll be this woman, this strange woman, walking through the marketplace on some planet a billion miles from Earth. She's not Rose Tyler. Not any more. She's not even human._  
  
What did it mean to be human, anyway? Get married, settle down, have a family, die on Earth? After seeing so much more than even the President, Rose honestly didn't know anymore. All she knew was that everyone needed a hand to hold. She recalled Sarah Jane Smith, the woman who waited nearly thirty years for the Doctor to return to her. No hand, no TARDIS, nothing but a broken heart. Rose knew how she felt — during the last year of their travels together, the Doctor broke her heart, not once, but twice: leaving her and Mickey to be dissected on an alien ship whilst he danced with Madame de Pompadour; stranding her on Darlig Ulv Stranden and saying everything but what needed to be said. The Doctor broke it yet a third time on the beach five months ago. Rose didn't think she could be brave enough to face heartbreak a fourth time.  
  
John was an accident. She hadn't intended to become involved with him. Once she did, she began to see the world and the Doctor in a new light. John's dedication to his father — a man with primary progressive MS half a world away — and Torchwood, whom he called his unit, made her remorseful of her treatment of her family and friends. How the hell could I just leave them? Jackie, who cared for her as a single parent; Pete, who took her and her mother into his house and heart; Tony, the little brother she had always wanted growing up as an only child; Jake, the man who had lost a lover and several close mates in the span of seven years; and John, her protector, comrade and lover — she would have left all of them for a madman and his box.  
  
_That wasn't human,_  she reproached herself. In the past three months, she had been making amends with her family; she spent more time with Jackie and Tony and had not been on any away missions, much to her father's relief. She became Jake's new partner and introduced him to his new boyfriend, Cyril. On Friday evenings, she and John ate carryout and watched a film. Though she tried to hide her relationship with John at work, thereby hiding it from Jackie, she suspected that Pete knew.  
  
Rose was so lost in thought that she did not hear John come up behind her. Dressed in a black suit, faded grey Oxford and striped tie, he dropped down and gave her a kiss. "Mornin', sweet." He rested his head against hers.  
  
She smiled, "Mornin.' Cuppa?"  
  
"Ah, no thanks. I need my Venti Starbucks, black, no sugar. Ready?"  
  
Rose nodded slightly, distracted by her thoughts. "Yeah. Jake and the Doctor should be along."  
  
John gazed at her, tilting his head. "Penny for your thoughts? Do you regret…?"  
  
"No!" Rose said quickly. "No, I don't, actually. It's just…new. Different."  
  
"Is that good or bad?" John asked.  
  
"I don't know," she answered. "It's just going to be awkward in Paris, with the Doctor an' all."  
  
"Well," John began, as he kissed the nape of her neck, "The Doctor is a big boy. He can handle it. We're professionals, right?" He kissed her as though it were an exclamation.  
  
"Yeah," Rose replied uncertainly.  
  
"Rose, be honest with me. How do you feel about this? About us?"  
  
She paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Was this another Mickey? Was she running away from the Doctor? She was certainly attracted to John — he was pretty, had personality, didn't make decisions for her. "I want this," she finally said.  
  
He seemed content with her response as he gave her a peck on the lips and grabbed both their overnight bags. "I wonder what you packed in here. Maybe a few items from Darjeeling?" He pretended to fiddle with the zip on Rose's bag when she snatched it from him.  
  
"Oi! Get your own!" As Rose started to chase John, her Vitexphone rang. It was Jake; he and the Doctor were outside waiting.  
  
"Well, Agent O'Reilly, back to work, yeah?"


	7. Partners in Crime

**Partners in Crime**

 

James Noble sat in the passenger side of Jake's electric car. Though working for Torchwood and saving the multiverse had made him a relatively wealthy man, Jake preferred his small flat in Croyden to keep a low profile. Since he handled all of Torchwood's on-site investigations as Pete's second-in-command, Jake frequently drove to work, incidentally forming a regular carpool of agents including John, Rose and now the Doctor. After Pete's meeting, Jake offered the Doctor a lift to the train station via text. James accepted, though it was out of sheer masochistic desire to see Rose and her cowboy.  
  
But that wasn't the only thing on his mind. Guilt, anger, shame and joy settled at the bottom of his stomach. The previous afternoon, he saw the one person he never thought he would see again…  
  


* * *

  
  
_Previous afternoon in Pete's office_  
  
"…Meet Donna Noble, your personal assistant. Other than your surname, I'm sure you'll find you have quite a bit in common."  
  
The Doctor stared in cold shock at the ginger woman dressed in a navy blue suit with small white pinstripes, a black camisole underneath and high heels. She raised an eyebrow at him, obviously impatient at his lack of social grace. After five seconds, she offered her hand, "Donna Noble."  
  
Gently, the Doctor took it with both trepidation and delight. "Yes — yes — definitely yes, brilliant, Donna Noble. I'm the Doctor."  
  
Donna rolled her eyes. "Well, aren't we special? The Doctor? Thought your name was James?"  
  
The Doctor coughed. "Hmm, yes, well, I'm called the Doctor. My name is James Noble, I suppose."  
  
Donna stared at him.  _Who was he exactly? Did he need to be sectioned?_  "Right. So, I was a manager at HC Clements. Director Tyler told me that you needed a PA?"  
  
Finding himself at a complete loss, shock converting into anger, the Doctor jammed his hands into his not-bigger-on-the-inside pockets. "Well, I don't  _need_  a personal assistant,  _ta_. I'm a grown man." Upon hearing the Doctor's remark, Donna's hazel eyes flashed like a storm.  _Who does he think he is, the bloody King of France?_  The best temp in Chiswick turned best HR manager at HC Clements had dealt with so many posh pretty boys in her fifteen-year career.  
  
None of them ever stood a chance.  
  
Pete stood silently, watching the interaction between the Oncoming Storm and the Red Lightning. If he didn't have to answer to one Jackie Tyler, he would have stayed and sent for popcorn. "Sorry to interrupt, but I promised Jackie that I'd pick Tony up from judo this evening. You're welcome to the office — just shut the door as you leave, ta." He nodded politely at Donna. "Ms. Noble, we'll talk tomorrow about your contract. Doctor, Ms. Noble," Pete said, as he picked up his tablet. They murmured their goodbye to Pete as he shut the door behind him.  
  
Donna turned on the Doctor like a cobra, closing in on his personal space. "Now, listen,  _sunshine,_  Mr. Tyler has offered me a lot of money for this position. It's Pete Tyler, it's posh and it gets me an' my husband a two-week trip to New Caledonia!"  
  
The Doctor frowned. "What's in New Caledonia?"  
  
"It's in the Pacific! It's warm and exotic!" Donna shouted.  
  
"It's not that impressive," he replied whilst tugging on his ear. "Actually, Papua New Guinea…."  
  
"Oi, nutter! That's enough!"  
  
"Oi, I can't help it if your vacation is  _dull!_ " the Doctor quipped back in equal volume, his eyes as large as Donna's.  
  
In the span of two seconds, Donna the Red Lightning became Lady Donna Noble Vesuvius. "What is your problem, Doctor? You don' even know me, and you insult a dream of mine! How many PAs have you had, anyway? Did they lay one on ya? Hope so!"  
  
The Doctor's eyes turned dark. He knew what the Other had to do in order to save the Doctor-Donna's life. "I work alone," he said quietly.  
  
All of Donna's anger dissipated at the hitch in the Doctor's voice. She studied his appearance; he was like a teenager trapped in a thirty-something man's body. He was rail thin — the rats wouldn't touch that one — his glasses bent and dirty, his clothes looked slept in and his eyes, so dark and lonely.  
  
On the other hand, he did manage to shave.  
  
Donna took a deep breath. "When was the last time you ate, Doctor?" she asked in a softer tone.  
  
The Doctor puckered his brow in surprise. "What?"  
  
Donna smiled. "I asked when was the last time you ate?"  
  
The Doctor paused, searching his perfect Time-Lord memory —  _perfect enough to remember the Doctor-Donna._  "Well, I did have a banana and a cuppa yesterday morning and some rather disgusting strawberry Vitex earlier. I can't believe that's considered a health drink! I'm fine."  
  
She gazed at him in disbelief. "You're  _bonkers!_  No wonder you're so thin! Come on, we're leaving." Donna moved to the door; the Doctor immobile, gaping at her. "Oi! You don't get a choice. I won't take no for an answer. Shift!" she boomed.  
  
The Doctor, ever in fear of the Donna Vesuvius, nodded. "Right," he replied in a slightly high-pitched voice.  
  


***

  
Donna took the skinny bloke to her favourite Singaporean restaurant near Victoria Station. Always filled with regular diners from the local Singaporean, Chinese and Malay communities, it was, in Donna's humble opinion, one of London's best-kept secrets. After glaring at him for a straight ten minutes over his order (or lack thereof; he was fine), she ordered two plates of Hokkien mee and a pot of tea. They sat in silence, glaring at each other. After fifteen minutes of uncomfortable silence, the waitress brought their food.  
  
Donna grabbed her set of chopsticks and passed another set to the Doctor. "Bon appétit," she wished him with a silent warning.  
  
The Doctor rolled his eyes, "Donna…."  
  
"You will eat it!" she hissed.  
  
"Fine, fine," he hissed back, picking up his chopsticks. He took his first bite; a spicy explosion of prawns, egg and rice noodles, pork, fish cake, greens, spring onion, shallots and lime. When was the last time I ate? He took another, larger bite. The Doctor rolled his eyes, this time from pure enjoyment. "Oh, this is brilliant!"  
  
Donna watched him as his mouth greedily absorbed the meal. She hummed a response and took another bite, adding some extra chilli sauce to the dish.  
  
"Oh, Donna," he said, his mouth half-full with noodles. "This is fantastique, molto bene! I didn't think food could taste like this! I lied when I said that I had eaten yesterday morning. It was two days ago! Ha!" His exclamations attracted attention from the other diners.  
  
Donna spoke quietly in encouragement to keep his voice down. "I knew it. Is this a normal thing for you?"  
  
He shovelled a handful of noodles into his mouth. "Well," he began, chewing, "It's complicated. I didn't need a lot of food before. Could go days without it."  
  
She eyed him suspiciously. "That's not even human, Doctor! You could fall ill like that!"  
  
He paused at Donna's remark. "Yeah," he replied softly.  _If she only knew…_  "Anyway, what did Pete tell you?" The Doctor poured some tea into her cup, then his and took a sip.  
  
She wiped her mouth with a napkin and took a sip of her tea. "It was really weird, y'know. I already have a job and the Pete Tyler calls me to see 'im. Thought, no way, what the hell does he want with me when he could call on any of those Fortune 500 people? Offered me a competitive salary — three times as much as I make now — to run your schedule, look at your reports and the like. It's just wizard — two competitive positions in four years, s'like like my destiny! Everything converging."  
  
At her last words, the Doctor choked on his tea. He coughed violently.  
  
"Doctor, are you alright?"  
  
He nodded. "Yeah, fine. Just swallowed wrong."  _That's rubbish, stupid ape physiological responses. Stupid bloody gingerbread houses_.  
  
She waited until his coughing ceased before continuing. "I mean, who could resist the really private sector?" she gestured with quotation marks, knowing better than to discuss Torchwood in public. "What about you? You must be pretty important if the Director gives you a PA instead of a P45."  
  
The Doctor winced. "I was important," he answered quietly. "But I'm a glorified errand boy. I identify artefacts that no one else can."  
  
Donna frowned. "But that doesn't sound like you're unimportant. Quite the contrary, it sounds like. Mr. Tyler told me that you're some sort of physicist?"  
  
His lips turned up briefly. "Something like that. Actually, I'm a doctor of everything, you might say. Temporal physics, biological systems, a little of column A, a little of column B. Though I work primarily in intergalactic astrophysics and astrobiology." He refused to say archaeology.  
  
Her mouth dropped open in glee. She screamed silently. No WAY! she mouthed. You have seen ALIENS!  
  
The Doctor smirked. Ah, his brilliant Donna. If she only knew… "Something like that."  
  
"Well, then, Spaceman, it looks like those reports will be an interesting read."  
  
Her excitement reflected in a dark, part-Time Lord ocular pool of awe and shame. He buried his head in his hands.  _Her life isn't worth it. He doesn't deserve a second chance._  "Donna, it's not that I don't like you. I just don't think this is a good idea. I'm…" he paused, collecting his thoughts. "I'm not a good person to be around. I'm rough, rude and not ginger. Look at me: I'm not important; I don't have family, friends, or a wife. Actually, I'm hoping to quit my job soon and travel. You know — maybe around the world." The Doctor gazed up and off into space, nodding to himself. "Yeah, that's what I'll do."  
  
Donna raised an eyebrow and calmly sipped her tea. "Well, alright then. That's that. I can take no for an answer. But I have just one question."  
  
The Doctor looked at her in reply, waiting.  
  
"I think, since I did do you a favour by saving you from starvation, you should pay the bill."  
  
"What?!" he demanded.  
  
"Well, I think a free meal is sufficient compensation for wasting my time!" Donna bellowed, crossing her arms.  
  
"Oi! Wasn't my idea, Red!"  
  
"Oi! Don't call me Red, Spaceman!" She stood up and grabbed her purse. "Know what? The hell with you! Have a nice meal!"  
  
As she proceeded past him, he gently touched her arm. "Wait, Donna. I — I'm not carrying any money," he murmured.  
  
"Not my problem! I'm sure the coppers will understand."  
  
The Doctor gawked at her. "You're seriously gonna leave me? After bloody dragging me here? To be nicked by coppers?"  
  
Donna smiled. "Well, I  _could be_  persuaded otherwise."  
  
His mouth dropped open. "You…You…You… _This is extortion!_ "  
  
She grinned. "So, do we have a deal, Doctor James Noble?"

* * *

 

After Donna paid the bill at the restaurant, she took the Doctor by the arm to her hybrid car. Unlocking the doors, she ordered, "Get in."  
  
The Doctor mumbled a musical sound that resembled sharp, dissonant notes on a saxophone as he slid into the passenger's seat. She stepped into the driver's side and pressed the start button for the engine.  
  
"You're not going to take me home, are you?" asked the Doctor.  
  
"Not yet. You're going to Paris, yeah?" He nodded. "Well, you're not showing up like you've been on a three-day bender. You look like paper cut shite."  
  
"Oi! I'll have you know, sweetheart, that this is my new look!"  
  
"Oh, Christ. Dare I imagine the old one? Modelled after Leaving Las Vegas, the musical?"  
  
"No," he whinged. "Geek chic."  
  
"What?"  
  
"They must not have it here. Never mind. Timey-whimey stuff," said the Doctor.  
  
"You are barmy, James Noble. Absolutely barmy! We're definitely not related." He just smirked.  
  
  


***

  
  
  
Donna Noble loved shopping, absolutely adored it. She could hours at a shopping centre and find the best discounts on designer clothing. However, when in possession of a Vitex executive credit card courtesy of Pete Tyler, she allowed herself the luxury of dragging her new charge —  _she couldn't bring herself to say employer_  — to Harrod's. A couple of suits would do him good.  
  
As for the Doctor, he was certain that he had ended up in the Thirteenth Level of Hell. Back in his sixth incarnation, he should have told Dante that there were levels past nine! Shopping was boring and pointless.  _Why do humans vary their clothing so bleedin' much? All one needed was a couple of good suits and trainers. The sonic would do the rest!_ He threw himself in the beige armchair next to two other blokes in suits, Lance and Simon, who were attempting to be as little involved in shopping as possible.  
  
"Is the wife done yet?" muttered Simon. "Footie's startin' soon."  
  
"Tell me about it, mate," replied the Doctor.  
  
"You'd think they'd give us a remote or somethin'. Top Gear or footie," said Lance.  
  
Before the Doctor could respond, he heard a shrill "James Noble!" coming from the suit department.  
  
"Love, honour and obey," quipped Lance.  
  
"Oi! She's my personal assistant! We're not like that. Nope. Not even remotely."  
  
"Is that what they're callin' them nowadays?" asked Simon.  
  
The Doctor rolled his eyes and he dragged himself the twenty metres to Donna and a saleswoman holding three expensive-looking solid black, brown, grey and blue suits with Oxfords of different colours. No pinstripes. "Oi, Paper Cut, we need you to try on these suits. They're special Rails-for-men." She pushed the suits at him.   
  
He growled. "Sure thing, Red."  
  
In the changing room, he first put on the black suit.  _Nah. Looks like I'm attending a funeral. Just no._ He removed the suit and exchanged it for the brown on the door hangar.  _I look like him. No, that's all… wrong._ The grey was nice, though a bit too light. Finally, a deep TARDIS-blue that was stiff, shiny and silky all at the same time.  
  
Donna made him buy all except the brown. "The Vitex Christmas Party's comin' up and it's either the black suit or a tuxedo. Take your pick!" The Doctor grumbled, seizing the black suit in response. They finished three hours later and after one velvet black jacket, several different colour jumpers, three suits, light brown trousers and six pairs of Converses (which the Doctor refused to give up).  
  
As the Doctor juggled the various bags and boxes and opened her car boot, Donna's phone blared Tina Turner's The Best. Donna's husband, Shaun Temple, a dark-skinned man in his late-thirties, appeared on the Vitexphone.  
  
"Babe, where are you? It's half-seven!"  
  
"Hi, I'm sorry, sweetheart, I'm hurrying. Gotta drop off the Spacenutter." The Doctor made a face.  
  
"Is this the Pete Tyler project?"  
  
"Yeah, I'll explain later. An hour. Love ya!"  
  
Shaun smiled. "Lookin' forward to it. Love ya babe."  
  
Donna switched off her phone. "Oi, Spacenutter, so what's your address?"  
  
  


***

  
  
  
The Doctor fell into his modern, yet desolate flat. The boxes from Harrod's flew everywhere. Donna followed him inside and looked around, shaking her head. Typical bloke: dishes covered in three-days worth of mould in the sink, jellybellies on the coffee table and several magazines featuring Rose Tyler on the cover scattered on the couch.  
  
It looked as though he hadn't left the flat in weeks.  
  
She went to inspect the brightest, well-read magazine next to the pillow stuffed into the seat; a beautiful blonde in a red, low-cut Diane von Furstenberg dress was featured along with the title  _Rose Tyler: Chic or Chav?_ On the table, another magazine was opened to a photo of Rose Tyler dressed in a white blouse and a book in hand for a "London Reads!" advert.  
  
Donna turned to him as he put the boxes on the dining table. "That poor woman, Rose Tyler. Never liked the gossips myself." She watched as his faced changed from neutral to shame and then to angry in the span of five seconds. The Doctor marched over to the couch and Donna, and collected all of the magazines, depositing them in the shelf underneath the flat television set across from the couch.  
  
"Oh, sorry!" he chirped manically. "Where are my manners? Rude and not ginger, that's me! I didn't know you wanted to sit. Thought you were on a tight schedule."  
  
Donna sat on the couch cautiously. "Thank you," she said as he walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on the stove. He reached into the cupboard; there were no Jammie Dodgers and no tea.  
  
"Um," he tugged his ear nervously, "It appears I've no tea to offer. Despite what my passport says, I'm not very British, apparently."  
  
Donna rolled her eyes. "Somehow, Skinny Boy, I'm not surprised." She removed her Vitexphone from her purse and made a short list.  _Tea; Jammie Dodgers; possibly food because Spacemen eat three-day-old shite._  "Do you have a spare key?" asked Donna.  
  
The Doctor looked at her quizzically. "Um, yes?"  
  
Donna nodded. "Good. I will do this only once 'cos I'm not a child-minder. Your kitchen needs tending to and you have no food. God forbid a woman — maybe Rose Tyler — come over for a tea or wine!"  
  
Pain echoed in the Doctor's eyes. "She doesn't need me," he quietly whispered.  
  
Donna hesitated at his reflection of hopelessness. "James, I was joking. She's an heiress. Of course she doesn't notice people like us," she said gently, as though speaking to a disappointed child.  
  
The Doctor sniffed. "Yeah, yeah, no problem. Oh, you know, I'm fine. I get to go to Paris, eh!" He smiled at Donna. "Paris, the most beautiful city in the world! Did you know that one of Henri IV's favourite places near the Louvre was ... ?"  
  
"Oi! You've got a gab, don't ya?" Donna interrupted.  
  
"Oi! At least I've got somethin' to say!" he yelled back.  
  
"Fuckin' hell, you're hopeless! But it's like…. it's like I know you, Doctor. I know what you're going to say. This is wizard, 'specially comin' from me, but have we met before? 'S like, déjà vu."  
  
The Doctor's heart lurched in his chest.  _Yes! Yes! We know each other, Donna Noble! We're best mates! You gave me your heart and a life and I gave you my mind! You're the sister that I haven't had in centuries! That I never had!_  
  
"No, we've never met," he mumbled quietly.  
  
_Chicken shite._  
  
"Huh," grunted Donna noncommittally, as though she didn't quite believe him. "Well, James Noble, this is got to be one of the weirdest days in my life."  
  
He moved to sit down next to her. "Tell me about it. Most of the time, I feel like I'm living someone else's life and not the one I want."  
  
Donna snorted. "Doesn't surprise me. You're a ... Spaceman. Don't know what else to call you, really."  
  
The Doctor smiled. "Yeah. May I ask you a personal question?" Donna raised her eyebrow in silent response. "Why did you become a PA?"  
  
The middle-aged ginger looked down at her hands. "My Mum, mostly. Growin' up poor in Chiswick, she made sure I knew that temping was easy work for a chav like me," she replied sarcastically, rolling her eyes at the mention of Sylvia Noble. "I wanted more. So, I went to Uni in London just to spite her, finished a Master's programme in Information Management whist internin' at HC Clements." She smiled. "That's where I met Shaun. He's a barrister."  
  
The Donna grinned in delight. "Donna Noble, that's brilliant!"  
  
Donna grinned back. "Ain't it?" The grin quickly faded. "It's too bad that my mum never saw me graduate. She passed from breast cancer six months prior. But my dad and gramps were there. It was the best day of my life. Along with marrying Shaun!"  
  
Unshed tears were in his eyes. "Your…grandfather's still alive?"  
  
Donna stared at him oddly. "Yes, he is. He's not that old! Says the stars keep him healthy. So is my father. What about you?"  
  
The Doctor looked away, shaking his head. He couldn't tell her.  
  
"I'm sorry, Doctor. You really have no one, do you? Don't you have someone? A friend?"  
  
He looked up at her, his heart racing. "Yeah, I have a friend. She…she works with me. She's brilliant and …" he wiped his eyes, "…and very strong, so kind, so brave."  
  
Donna smiled knowingly. "Maybe, if she's going to Paris, you might take her out. Walk along the Champs-Elysées." The Doctor gazed at her like a frightened animal. "Oh, Blimey!" Donna bit out, exasperated. "What is it with you sciencey blokes? Pinin' after the girl, gapin' at magazines of fantasy women, and doin' nothin'? She ain't gonna bite!"  
  
"Yeah," he breathed.  
  
She shook her head. "Do what you want, James Noble, but this," she gestured at the disaster around them, "isn't healthy. You may be a Spaceman, but you're human."  
  
_Human. Not Time Lord. Well, not entirely. Just enough._  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Donna stood to leave. "Well, get some sleep, yeah? Your train leaves early in the morning. I'll be by tomorrow to take care of the Great Disaster of Chelsea."  
  
"Oi! Wait a moment. How did you know when my train leaves?"  
  
"I didn't become a manager by par hasard, Doctor. I'm good at multitasking and I know how to keep schedule. Take care of yourself, Spaceman." Donna picked up her purse and left the Doctor in a state of shock in the flat.  
  
She hadn't worn a watch.  
  
  


***

  
  
  
Hours later, the Doctor stared at the night shadows on the ceiling. Other than his chronic insomnia that plagued him for centuries after the Time War, his first meeting again with Donna Noble delighted and terrified him.  _Impossible! How could she even be in this universe? The timelines could only converge onto one Donna Noble.  
  
No, no, no. This was all so…wrong! She can't exist! _  
  
Yet she existed. Yet she ended up in his life again.  _Am I going to screw up all the Donna Nobles in the multiverse? The Doctor, Cock Up of Legends!_  He should have told her to run the moment Pete introduced them in his office. Yet he couldn't. She was right — the Other was right; he needed  _someone_. Rose had her family and her friends —  _pretty boys included, apparently_ — and the profound loneliness enveloped his spirit. Though the danger to Donna was still great —  _she could never remember_ — he could not let go of the one tendril of normalcy he still had. He could keep his secrets. The faint music of the budding TARDIS and worshiping at the altar of Rose Marion Tyler from afar were the only things keeping him sane.  
  
Rose. He never looked back, never asked a second time. But both Donna and Rose were exceptions. He'd asked twice, he would have asked a  _million_  times. Paris, the city of romance; he'd never taken her to the planet Barcelona or Paris, he realised.  
  
_There's always a chance, even second chances_.  
  
"Good night, Donna Noble," he whispered to the empty bedroom. "Good night, Rose Tyler. I love you — forever."  
  
  


***

  
  
  
In a small, nondescript brick house in Chiswick, two people slept entwined in a large bed. The ginger woman mumbled, "Good night, Doctor."  
  
Shaun's eyes flew open. Since when did Donna talk in her sleep?  
  
  


* * *

  
The next morning, the Doctor sat in the passenger seat of Jake's hybrid. The black velvet blazer, white jumper and brown trousers from Harrod's suited him.  _Ta, Donna._  From the rear view mirror, he spied two people walking together from Rose's building. Rose and the Wyoming Sheepherder. After placing their bags in the car boot, Rose and John opened the rear doors and sat down in the backseat.  
  
"Ta, Jake. Mornin' Doctor," said Rose. John greeted Jake and simply nodded at the Doctor. "Morning, Jake. Noble."  
  
"Good morning," muttered the Doctor. Jake pulled away from the curb and proceeded down the road toward St. Pancras. The Doctor tuned out the conversation between Rose and Jake about the train schedule.   
  
He may be only human, but was Time Lord enough to smell John all over Rose.


	8. Bienvenue à Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some American football terminology/background for those who are unfamiliar: the two teams mentioned are rivals and the match usually takes place in late-November. For the purposes of Pete's World, I've made it in early to mid-December. When a team "fumbles" the ball, it means that a player controlling the ball drops it and is (normally) recovered by the other team, who then has a chance to score.
> 
> Regarding the evil Selecta/coffee machines, I have a personal vendetta against those pieces of shite. I swear, those things are a plot by SNCF. So they would most certainly call the British des rosbifs (slur; literally means "roast-beef people.")
> 
> Finally, I beg your indulgence regarding the biology contained in this chapter. I'm more comfortable with the physical sciences, so forgive any errors I make.

**Bienvenue à Paris**

 

The two and a half-hour train trip from London to Paris had been relatively quiet and pleasant for the Torchwood team. Jake and Rose napped in their worn, first-class seats whilst John watched a re-run of an American football match between the Denver Broncos and the New England Patriots, the latter whom John absolutely hated. The Broncos were winning by the end of the second quarter.  
  
James Noble spent the entire time either in the open space of the snack car or slouched in his seat behind Rose and next to John's.  
  
 _Blimey! How humans love enclosed spaces._  
  
He couldn't decide whom to glare at: John for inserting himself into Rose's life —  _among other things_ — or Rose because  _she obviously had a late night._  He tried valiantly —  _he thought_ — to focus on the Case of the Rock before Time, but he became distracted by the slightest breath Rose took in sleep, imagining if she forgot to breathe in the throes of passion, and the snickers that John made at the Patriots' fumbling the football, wondering if he chuckled the same way at teasing Rose in bed.  
  
 _Focus, man! You're a Time Lord. You're above such primitive behaviour. You have people to help. Leave Rose to her ape of a pretty boy._  
  
After all, he did suffer Mickey the Idiot, Adam the Twat and Captain Jack.  
  
The train arrived at the Gare Paris Nord at 9.20 in the morning. Their meeting at the Institut Pasteur was at 10.30. Jake and Rose woke up, stretched and collected their bags from the rack in the middle of the car, whilst James waited for John to leisurely pause the game on his Vitexphone and let him out of the row.  
  
 _For a military man, he does take his time,_  thought the Doctor, as he caught a glimpse of a smirk on the American's face.  
  
"Bienvenue à notre Paris, Docteur," said Jake. "We have roughly an hour until our meeting with the Institut."  
  
The Doctor smiled. "Allons-y!"  
  


***

  
  
Paris Gare du Nord, like in any other in the multiverse, was filled with Europeans and tourists going on winter vacation.  _Madame, monsieur, votre attention, s'il vous plaît. A la suite d'un mouvement interprofessionnel, le TGV numéro 9876, en provenance de Marseille Saint-Charles, arrivée initialement prévue à 9h35, arrivera avec un retard de trois heures quinze environ. Merci de votre compréhension._  
  
"Well, the French striking — some things are multiversally constant," chirped the Doctor.  
  
"Is this going to affect our meeting at the Institut?" asked Rose.  
  
Jake shook his head. "It shouldn't. I think they're striking in the South. Pete told me that the Director is expecting us at 10.30. Olivier should be at the loading zone to meet us." He walked over to the gray coffee machine, reached into his coat pocket and pulled out three, two-euro coins. "Anyone want a cuppa?"  
  
Rose nodded with a smile. "Yes, please, Jake."  
  
Jake looked at the two men, who shook their heads, each taking an opportunity to glare at each other from the corner of their eyes. "No, thanks," replied John. "I need a gallon of good old fashioned coffee or at least in a proper Parisian café, right Rose?" He winked at her. James gnashed his teeth.  
  
As Jake placed a two-euro coin into the slot and pressed the button for tea with lemon, the machine suddenly turned off. "Fuckin' hell! This is the sixth time that these fuckin' shite machines have swallowed my euros."  
  
Rose chuckled. "Then why do you keep using 'em?"  
  
"'Cos I need a fuckin' cuppa. And a cig."  
  
The Doctor walked over to the machine and discreetly pointed his sonic at the errant machine through his coat pocket. Nothing.  
  
"That's impossible! The sonic works on every machine in the multiverse!" cried the Doctor.  
  
Rose snickered. "Not every machine, apparently."  
  
"Oi!" The Doctor pulled out and smacked the screwdriver against his palm. "It must be cosmic timey-wimey interference."  
  
"Bugger," muttered Jake. "I'll just bear until lunch."  
  
After leaving the infernal machine, which Jake swore was cackling at the rosbifs, team Torchwood walked outside of the train station to a waiting black hybrid. Olivier Jean-Baptiste, caretaker of Pete Tyler's luxury flat near the Eiffel Tower, was hired directly out of Sciences-Po by Vitex to cater to its guests and interests in Paris. To avoid unwanted publicity by the tabloids, Torchwood frequently used the private Paris flat to conduct its investigations.  
  
"Jake!" yelled the Haitian from the car. "Salut!"  
  
Jake smiled. "Salut, Olivier!"  
  
"You've arrived on time. I was afraid that the strikes would affect travel from London." Olivier exited the car and opened the boot. He embraced Jake warmly. "Ah, Rose, always a pleasure." They exchanged kisses in greeting.  
  
"Olivier, I'd like you to meet Agent John O'Reilly from the FBI in America and our new consultant, Dr James Noble," said Jake.  
  
The Haitian offered his hand to John, who took it firmly, and then to the Doctor, who accepted. "Nice to make your acquaintance. You can put your bag inside and then we'll go to Director Tyler's complex. The Institut's about 15 minutes away from the apartment by car, so we have time."  
  
After placing their luggage inside the boot, the five of them crammed into the hybrid, with Rose sitting in the front passenger seat. Though spacious compared to most vehicles in France, the Doctor resorted to fiddling with his sonic screwdriver to distract him from the cramped space and sitting next to the Sheep-ape. Olivier manoeuvred the car through the maze of Paris streets from the 10th arrondissement north through the 18th arrondissement and onto the Périphérique. John frequently reached over the Doctor to look out at the run down, graffiti-covered outskirts of Paris.  
  
"This isn't quite how I imagined my first look at Paris to be," he remarked.  
  
James rolled his eyes. "You think that Paris's all baguettes, Picasso and Arc de Triomphe? These are estates. Same as New York, eh?"  
  
John stared at the Doctor. "Yes, I'm aware of what a shithole is, Noble. Saw plenty of 'em in the Middle East."  
  
"Glad that I could remind you, Cowboy," retorted the Doctor. They eyed each other, posturing as best as they could in a cramped, moving vehicle. The Doctor smirked arrogantly whilst John displayed a bored expression. Rose watched the scene unfold from the rear-view mirror, whilst Jake tried to send comforting looks to her.  
  
Olivier cleared his throat, taking a silent cue from Rose and Jake. "So, Agent O'Reilly, it's your first time in Paris?"  
  
John turned to Olivier, his annoyance dissipating. "Call me John, and yeah. I was stationed in Germany for two years, but I never made it over to France."  
  
"Ah! You're military?"  
  
"Ex-military, yes. Former Army Ranger," John replied.  
  
"I had a friend in Port-au-Prince who is an attaché with the US Army in Georgia. Very nice people, he tells me," said Olivier.  
  
"The best. So you're from Haiti?"  
  
"Yes. I was born and raised in Port-au-Prince. My parents were, euh, graduates of Sciences-Po, so I went there, as well."  
  
"Ah, I see. And you work for the Director?"  
  
"Since 2.10, yeah." Olivier shifted his eyes from John to the Doctor. "And you, Dr Noble? You're a scientist?"  
  
The Doctor grinned manically whilst still tinkering with the sonic screwdriver. "Just the Doctor and I'm, well, a sort of jack-of-all-trades. I know a lot about a lot. But yeah, I'm Director Tyler's physicist," he stated matter-of-factly.  
  
"And he's so modest, too," interjected Rose, smirking.  
  
James looked at her in surprise. "Well, I was being modest."  
  
Olivier smiled. "Well, welcome to Paris, the both of you."  
  


***

  
  
After arriving at Pete's Hausmannian flat block located in the 16th arrondissement near Trocadéro and the Place d'Iéna, the four agents each selected a room, though both John and the Doctor made sure they were equidistant from the master bedroom occupied by Rose. The flat on the fourth floor was spacious and modern with a clear view of the Eiffel Tower and several Zeppelins; grey, white, metallic beige, blue and green scattered the flat. The drawing room was an off-white rotunda with plush grey chairs and modern tables. Though a company property, it had a familial character to it, which made Charles Zana one of Pete and Jackie's favourite interior designers. Once Jake finished his cigarette on the balcony of his room and had a spot of pomegranate juice (lacking proper time for coffee) that Olivier had bought for him the previous evening, they departed for the Institut Pasteur.  
  
The notorious Paris traffic was merciful enough to allow the Torchwood team to arrive on time at 10.30. They decided to wait a few minutes, as the French would almost certainly be ten or fifteen minutes late. Jake pulled out a cigarette and offered one to Olivier, who accepted with pleasure. He lit both of their cigs and took a drag.  
  
"Let's be on the lookout. Here, the French say one thing and hold back a geet walla shite. We'll no doubt have to wait," said Jake.  
  
Olivier nodded, taking a drag and exhaling. "Ouais. The bureaucrats will tell you everything except what you want to know."  
  
John frowned. "Then why are we here?"  
  
Rose smiled slightly at John, then at the rest of her colleagues. "Ah, that is the real question. Why call the UK to deal with a little-known vector in Sweden?"  
  
The Doctor beamed at Rose; she had learnt well. "Well, we'll have to see what they want to show off and investigate what they don't."  
  
 _The pleasures of diplomacy._  
  
Olivier waited patiently outside as the four agents entered the hospital and medical research complex of the Institut. Predictably, a Franco-Danish delegation comprised of Magnussen and the lead virologist and assistant to the Directeur, Jean-Marc Gourdin, were waiting for them.  
  
"Agents," greeted Dr Gourdin. "Please follow us to the quarantine."  
  
As the senior agent, Jake led the group, followed by Rose, John and the Doctor, who surreptitiously collected readings with his sonic screwdriver. Other than his general discomfort at being in a hospital, the Doctor's half-Time Lord senses were tingling — something was amiss…  
  
Four floors down and several hallways later, Doctors Gourdin and Magnussen led them to an isolation unit where two men were on life support, their skin and bone translucent.  
  
"Could I see their chart? I assume they were exposed to the spores?" asked the Doctor.  
  
Gourdin walked over to a tablet on the wall next to the reinforced entrance to the isolation unit. He pulled it out and handed it to the Doctor. "Here you are, Dr Noble. But as you'll find, the best virologists in the world are perplexed."  
  
"Well, I'm not easily perplexed," quipped the Doctor. He studied the chart; the spore acted within minutes: both men suffered fever, headache, nausea, haemorrhaging and shortness of breath. But thus far, the exposure had yet to actually kill them. "Any brain activity?" he asked.  
  
"We don't know, honestly. Given how fast infection occurred, we haven't been close enough to perform many tests," Gourdin responded.  
  
"Obviously, it's not airborne, otherwise the entire island and possibly southern Sweden would have been infected," concluded Rose.  
  
Magnussen nodded. "Quite right, Agent Tyler. Additionally, there are roughly fifty people on the renovation project. No one else has fallen ill."  
  
"Then how do you know that they became sick from the spores?" asked Jake.  
  
The Doctor flipped through the chart. "Its genome is encoded in the form of RNA, like Ebola. Apparently, the same RNA was detected in samples taken from the Pele's Hair."  
  
John shook his head in confusion. "Wait a minute, here. From what I read in the papers, like that Ebola outbreak in Czechoslovakia in 1999, it's contagious. That's why the nurses and docs got the vaccine within days of the outbreak."  
  
"It's not Ebola, Agent O'Reilly. The general pathology doesn't fit and there's something else." said Dr Gourdin. "The RNA in the rock, specifically three of its bases, contained extremely high levels of deuterium, which means that it couldn't have originated on Earth, in addition to the spectroscopy readings we told you about."  
  
"Setting 64b should penetrate the quarantine without breaking it," the Doctor quipped as he pointed the sonic screwdriver at the transparent windows.  
  
"Don't!" cried Magnussen. "Are you mad?"  
  
The Doctor lowered the screwdriver slightly. "Um…" he nodded, "yeah, I'm generally that, yeah. But don't worry; the sonic won't shatter the quarantine." He pressed the button and the sonic buzzed. "Hmm…That's….Yes! Wait, no, hold on….What the hell? The virus isn't self-replicating; it's just, well, dormant."  
  
Magnussen reached for the screwdriver. "How do you know that?! That isn't any scientific device I'm familiar with."  
  
"Oi! Get your own. I don't just  _give_  my equipment to anyone!" yelped the Doctor, moving the sonic out of Magnussen's reach.  
  
"What sort of scientist are you, exactly?" asked Magnussen, still fixated on the device.  
  
"Boys and their toys," interjected Rose. "Doctor, just tell us  _where_  and  _what_ this virus is."  
  
"I was gettin' to it! Impatient, are we? Very  _American_ , yeah?" Rose raised an eyebrow whilst John bristled. "According to the sonic, the most — of course — advanced device on this planet, if not the universe," he glared at Magnussen, "this virus should have killed them upon infection. But it hasn't. It just copied itself to a certain point and stopped. It needs some sort of catalyst before killing the host?"  
  
Dr Gourdin crossed his arms. "Such as?"  
  
"I have no idea. But a virus like this didn't appear and infect two masons from Sweden."  
  
"Denmark," corrected Magnussen.  
  
The Doctor rolled his eyes. "Same difference. So…Where's the rock?"  
  
"We sealed off the island and destroyed the Pele's Hair. We couldn't afford not to," said Gourdin.  
  
Jake, the Doctor, Rose and John all looked at each other. "It seems you guys have it all under control. Unless there's something we've missed," said O'Reilly.  
  
Jake watched both Gourdin and Magnussen look at each other in alarm. "Tell us, or le Directeur will get an angry phone call from our Director, not to mention the President," he growled.  
  
Magnussen looked at them darkly. "There is something else. Follow me."  
  


***

  
  
Magnussen led them to a sterile, brightly lit oval vault where a glass display case held a manuscript browned from weather and age. "This is the last work by Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe written shortly before his death in 1601. It's called  _Diarium hominum impossibilium._  Never published."  
  
" _The Journal of Impossible Men?_ " inquired the American.  
  
Magnussen and the others turned to him in surprise. "Oh, you understand Latin?" asked the Doctor.  
  
John smirked. "I thought 'O'Reilly' would give it away, Doctor. I learned it in Catholic school."  
  
"You're right, Agent O'Reilly," said Magnussen. "The book is about a theory called the plurality of worlds. Extra-terrestrial life in the universe. It was very controversial at the time — so much so that astronomers feared excommunication or burning at the stake. Imagine our surprise in Copenhagen when we found the book buried among the ruins. A man who, at least publicly, championed the geocentric theory of the solar system."  
  
"Was this book found with the rock?" asked Jake.  
  
"Yes. Someone buried the rock and the book under two metres of rock, chalk and mud. The masons found it."  
  
The Doctor frowned in confusion. "Wait — why would Brahe rid himself of this book and the rock by burying it? Why not throw it in the sea? Unless…he wanted us to find it."  
  
Magnussen shrugged. "I have no idea, Doctor Noble. And it wasn't Tycho Brahe who hid the book. There was a letter dated 1604 found with the manuscript. It was badly torn and nearly illegible, but archivists at Copenhagen University and the Ecole des Chartes in Paris were able to identify the writer." He pointed to the barely legible name in the glass case next to Tycho Brahe's manuscript. The Doctor leaned over the case and squinted. He leaned back in surprise and looked at the others.  
  
"Johannes Kepler."  
  
"But why would Kepler — a prominent astrophysicist and a man who wrote a book about life on other worlds — hide this? What does the book say?" asked Rose.  
  
"That's what we wanted to know. So our team of historians and astrophysicists tried to read the book. But it was literally gibberish. The Latin did not make any sense and the equations contained within were incomprehensible," said the Dane.  
  
The Doctor took out his screwdriver to scan the book. "Doctor!" shouted Magnussen. "You're more than welcome to read the book, but not with that. We can arrange a sterile environment tomorrow morning."  
  
He glared in offence at the Dane. "What? It's a scientific tool, Magnussen."  
  
"My answer is still no," he said, pushing the screwdriver down with his hand. "This is an object of historical and scientific importance and I'll not have you destroying it." Magnussen gestured at the entrance. "Agent Simmonds, I'll have specialists from the Ecole des Chartes to assist you tomorrow morning."  
  
As the Doctor was about to protest, Jake nodded. "Of course, Dr Magnussen. In the meantime, please keep us apprised of the men's status."  
  
"Certainly," Dr Gourdin agreed. "Shall we meet again at 9.00 tomorrow?"  
  


***

  
  
Jake, John, Rose and a few steps behind, the Doctor exited the Institut and walked toward where Olivier had parked the car. "Well, that was interesting," said Jake, pulling out a cigarette from his jacket pocket.  
  
John shrugged, moving along side of Simmonds. "S'like what my dad used to say about scientists and bureaucrats — bullshit, more shit, piled higher and deeper. You buy that bullshit about Tycho's last will and testament?"  
  
The Northerner shook his head. "No fuckin' idea, man. We'll know more tomorrow, if they even let us read the book. Your Latin still good? We'll need it. What about you, Rose, Doctor?" Jake turned around to face Rose and the Doctor.  
  
The two men were standing in the car park, alone.


	9. The Doctor and Rose Run!

**The Doctor and Rose Run!**

 

As Jake and O'Reilly walked ahead of her, Rose slowed to wait for the Doctor. She turned to see no one behind her.  
  
 _He hasn't changed,_  she noted acerbically to herself.  _Should she follow the Doctor or stay with her away team? Staying was the right thing to do. Then again, the Doctor never avoids trouble. Not to mention what he might find..._  
  
With a sigh, Rose proceeded back to the entrance to no sign of the Doctor. Tentatively, she walked back inside to the security post and flashed her Torchwood ID. "Excuse me, I was just here with Dr Gourdin. Did you see a tall British man, about 1.9 metres tall, come back inside?"  
  
The security guard shook his head. "No, Miss," he replied in heavily accented English.  
  
She nodded her thanks and was about to exit the hospital when she noticed a narrow hallway to her left. Glancing quickly at the guard, who was checking the IDs of just-arrived visitors, she slid down the hall, keeping her head down to avoid being spotted by Magnussen, Gourdin or security. As she rounded the corner to her right, she felt a strong pair of arms grab her from behind, pull her through a door and into a dark, empty laboratory. One hand covered her mouth to keep her from screaming and the other arm tugged her body against a male torso.  
  
"Mmm!" she cried, struggling in vain.  
  
"Shhh!" a male voice commanded, his lips tickling her ear. "We need to be quiet if we want to find out what Maggy-boy is hiding." She consented, relaxing slightly in the man's arms. He uncovered her mouth and turned her to face him.  
  
"Bastard!" Rose hissed, punching the Doctor's arm.  
  
"Oi! You're so violent, Rose Tyler!" he whinged.  
  
"You'd better believe it! What the hell are you doing?" she growled.  
  
"I want to know what's inside the mysterious book, eh?" said the Doctor, his eyes bright with frenetic energy. "Why wait when you can skip to the last page?" He took out his sonic. "Well, or at least scan it for midnight reading."  
  
"That's terrible! I like a good surprise."  
  
A loud ringing interrupted his reply, echoing in the laboratory and down the halls. Rose's Vitexphone was receiving an incoming call from Jake. The Doctor looked at her. "Rose, turn it off. Someone's going to hear!"  
  
"Doctor, it's Jake. He's probably wondering where we are."  
  
Footfalls suddenly approached their location, followed by animated male voices in French discussing the latest gossip from the Elysée Palace. The Doctor peered through the window of the door: two physicians in lab coats.  
  
"Damn it, Rose, turn it off," whispered the Doctor.  
  
Rose rolled her eyes as she was writing a text to Jake. "Doctor, it's fine. They're probably just goin' back to their lab."  
  
One of the physicians was about to push inside the lab. Rose cursed under her breath, attempting to turn off the phone, whilst the Doctor looked around for a hiding place.  
  
"Is your phone off?" he asked.  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, it's off," she replied in a breathless tone.  
  
The physician walked into the laboratory, opening his notebook. As he looked up, a blonde woman in a pinstriped suit and black wool coat flashed an ID at him. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. This lab has been placed under immediate HAZMAT quarantine. Following Article VII, section 15, subsection 3, paragraph 60, I am enacting Protocol 7-Watson-Tango-Fireworks," the woman said authoritatively.  
  
He looked at the tall man standing behind her. "I'm sorry, Madame! No one notified me of any HAZMAT spill."  
  
She nodded understandingly, "That's because the spill is down the hall. Now, for your own safety, go home."  
  
The physician nodded. "Okay." He turned on his heel and left as promptly as he had entered. Once he was gone, Rose glanced at the ID badge. "Oh, I'm the British Minister of Defence! Ha!"  
  
She showed the badge to the Doctor, whose eyes widened. "How…?"  
  
"I kept the psychic paper you gave me before…I always bring it, just in case."  
  
 _Before she was pulled into this universe._  
  
The Doctor nodded once, wincing at the memory. He slid his hand into hers and pulled her toward the door. "Allons-y!" he said manically. They exited the laboratory and ran quickly down the white hospital hall. "If I remember correctly — and I always do — the vault should be down the hall and down four floors."  
  
"Okay, so we should look for a staircase or lift, yeah?"  
  
They walked down the corridor about ten metres when the Doctor cried, "Ah hah! A lift, Rose!" He never let go of her hand.  
  


***

  
  
The lift opened its doors at the fourth floor underground. Quickly checking for security in either direction, the Doctor slipped out with Rose following him closely. He gestured with his sonic to the last door on the left. The door unlocked and they entered leisurely. The vault lights revealed the mysterious manuscript and letter.  
  
"Fantastic!" exclaimed the Doctor. "Actually, I might have to come up with another phrase. Allons-y and fantastic are starting to get a bit dull. How about Geronimo? Nah, I don't like it — that sounds weird coming from me."  
  
Rose smiled slightly. "Personally, I haven't grown tired of fantastic or allons-y."  
  
The Doctor moved into her space. "That so, Rose Tyler?" he asked in a low voice.  
  
She frowned and moved away from him toward the glass case. "So, sonic it, yeah?"  
  
"Well, first, we'll need to remove the case." He pointed the sonic at the glass, which unlocked it. James picked up the glass and carefully set it down on the marble.  
  
Rose gaped in unease. "Doctor, this is hundreds of years old. You said scan it, not touch it. Shouldn't we wait until tomorrow?"  
  
"Remember what you said before? Why call the UK when they've got it handled? Why tell us about spectroscopy readings that we can't possibly verify?" he verbalised. "You can't tell me you're not curious."  
  
She exhaled in exasperation, brushing an errant blonde strand back behind her ear.  _He has me there._  "Okay, but let's make it quick. We don't wanna cause an incident."  
  
"Rose Tyler, don't be so  _dull!_ " The sonic whirred to life, scanning all of the pages and the letter in a fraction of a second. "The page deterioration is what you'd expect, the ink all correct for the early-seventeenth century. So it's not a forgery." He smelled the paper. "It smells…off."  
  
Rose frowned. "What do you mean 'off'?" In response, he gently touches his tongue to the page, much to the blonde's dismay and disgust. "This isn't paper from this era. It's from….No! It's from …." The Doctor grew pale.  
  
"What, Doctor?"  
  
"It's from beyond the Void."  
  
" _What?_ But that's …" cried Rose.  
  
"Oi! That's my line! And yes, that should be impossible. My Other me closed the gap at Darlig Ulv Stranden, so it couldn't come through the void. It's retroclosure — couldn't have  _ever_  come through."  
  
Rose's furrowed her brow. "And yet, we exist. Could the Other you have made a mistake?"  
  
The Doctor glared at her in offence. "Oi! My temporal physics is  _perfect!_  I got my doctorate from the Time Lord Academy, ta!"  
  
She snorted, covering her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. "Yeah, well, you've cocked it up before. Twelve hours, remember?"  
  
Ignoring the reference to his ninth incarnation's driving error and the subsequent pain of the mother's slap from Hell, the Doctor's attention shifted to Kepler's letter. "Johnny, old boy, what are you tryin' to tell us? How the hell did you get exposed to the Void?" He read the writing. "I don't recognise either the language or the mathematical equations. And that says something."  
  
Rose peered over his arm. "So, it's like the Pit, then? Impossibly old?"  
  
The Doctor's response was a black cascade of dread in his eyes. Terrible words from a Devil echoed in his mind.  _The Valiant Child who will soon die in battle._  "It can't be. Nothing can escape a black hole," he finally replied.  
  
"Maybe he escaped to the Void?" asked Rose.  
  
He yanked at his hair, pulling it in all directions. "Hypothetically, and I mean, really hypothetically, even if you survive the singularity at the centre of a black hole, you wouldn't end up in the Void, which is a sort of nothing. You'd theoretically have some statistical chance of ending up  _somewhere and somewhen_  in a singularity."  
  
Rose touched Tycho Brahe's book, gently opening the cover. "Then we have some midnight readin' to do, Doctor."  
  
James took out his spectacles. "Let's see…." He flipped through the five hundred-odd pages at a superhuman rate, mumbling to himself as he went along. Rose looked up at him expectantly, waiting to solve the mystery any moment. After five minutes, he removed his specs and rubbed his eyes. "It's gibberish. It's like … It's like it was written in a drunken stupor or fever. Well, either could be possible for Tycho Brahe — he was known to be, shall we say, a sport drinker."  
  
Rose nodded in disappointment, but suddenly stopped when a small double-looped symbol caught her eye. It was a square centimetre in size, marked on every upper-right corner. "Look, Doctor! There!" She pointed at the corner. "I think it's an infinity symbol."  
  
"You're right, Rose. But why?"  
  
"God, maybe?" inquired Rose.  
  
"I don't know," he murmured whilst studying the symbol, touching it slightly. "And there's no trace of the virus here. Yet the rock was found with both the book and the letter. None of this makes any sense." He arranged the artefacts back to their initial position, placed the glass cover over them and locked the case using his screwdriver.  
  
"I guess we do need to attend tea and butter-cookies with Magnussen tomorrow," said Rose.  
  
"Or, go to Uraniborg. Fancy a trip to Sweden?" he asked, wigging his eyebrows.  
  
Rose looked away from the Doctor. "Not particularly. I don't think of Scandinavia as an ideal vacation."  
  
He stared at her in sympathy for a moment and then pressed a button on the sonic. "After you, Mademoiselle."  
  
She smiled and walked out first, followed by the Doctor. They hurried to the lift and called for the ground floor. Inside, Rose tapped her foot impatiently, as the Doctor placed one of his hands in his trouser pocket. His other hand brushed hers, fingers teasing and begging permission to loop around her small digits. Rose inhaled sharply at the contact.  
  
He leaned down into her ear. "Just like the old team, eh?"  
  
"Yeah," she breathed. Her fingers relaxed as his entwined with hers. As she gazed up at him, Rose noticed, for the first time, that the Doctor's intense, intelligent eyes had changed from molten chocolate to soft, twinkling brown, his regular breathing had turned into the faintest of panting. His mouth was slack, his lips searching…  
  
 _All directed at her._  
  
The lift signalled its arrival at the ground floor. Rose and James broke their intense gaze; he nonetheless refused to break physical contact. His head dipped down toward his chest, his breathing erratic, as though he had just finished a ten-kilometre run. Rose's heart was pounding against her chest and she swallowed hard. "We should go; Jake and John are waiting."  
  
"Yeah," James quietly mumbled.  
  
The doors opened to reveal three security guards. "You're not supposed to be in the section," one of them said.  
  
James took one more look at Rose, studying her response. Then the Doctor grinned manically. "Run!"  
  
She gave him a teeth-touched grin in return and they sprinted down the corridor, where the security guards began to yell at them. The Doctor and Rose ran faster, heading toward the entrance down the hall. As the guards began to give chase, a man waved his hand from the background. "Let them go."  
  


***

  
  
The Doctor and Rose hurried across the car park, searching for the black hybrid. Did Jake and John leave? Rose suddenly worried. "Shit, Doctor! I turned off my phone! They can't track us."  
  
"Doctor! Rose!" a voice cried out.  
  
Rose turned toward John O'Reilly, who was running toward them, hand on his Smith and Wesson. She breathed a sight of relief, whilst the Doctor grumbled upon seeing the American.  
  
"Rose, where the  _FUCK_  have you been?" yelled John. "We were about to call the police and Torchwood for reinforcements!"  
  
The Doctor came up from behind Rose, putting his arm around her body protectively. "Ah, we knew that Magnussen was lying, so the old team decided to investigate. Just like old times, right, Lewis?" he gestured at Rose.  
  
Anger poured throughout John's body like a river. "YOU!" he advanced toward the Doctor. "You motherfucker!"  
  
"That's enough!" bellowed a Northern accent, abruptly ending John's expletive-filled response. Olivier had pulled up a short distance away from the group; Jake partly exited the black hybrid. "Get in the fuckin' car, Tyler, Doctor. NOW."


	10. Worth the Monsters?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is mention of Steven Moffat's notorious second season episode "Girl in the Fireplace" to illustrate what I consider to be one of the major obstacles of Rose and Ten/Tentoo's relationship. As an aside, I didn't like the episode because of its glamorised portrayal of Madame de Pompadour. Despite what Moffat claims, she was certainly not the most intellectual French woman in eighteenth-century France. Sophie Volland, Emilie du Châtelet, Marie Paulze Lavoisier or Isabelle de Charrière lay more of a claim to that title than Reinette.

**Worth the Monsters?**

 

 

The ride back to the flat was silent with tension. Jake dragged on his cigarette in pure fury. John tightened his fist at his side to keep it from connecting to Doctor James Noble's pretty face. The Doctor snuck glances at Rose, who most certainly did not look at him. Fifteen minutes subsequent to leaving the Institut, Olivier bid them a good afternoon to leave them to sort out what happened.  
  
The four agents entered the flat; Jake stormed through the dining room and threw open the double doors to the kitchen. "Rose, what the  _living fuck_  was that about?" he yelled. He went to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of Vitex.  
  
Rose froze next to the off-white and grey dining room, John directly behind her. "The Doctor and I were in the vault…"  
  
Jake advanced on Rose, cherry Vitex in hand. "And you just decided to abandon the rest of your team?"  
  
The Doctor, watching from near the door, walked toward Jake. "Oi! Let her be, Jake. She was following me."  
  
Before Jake could reply, John immediately turned to the Doctor, obstructing his path to either Jake or Rose by laying his hand on the Doctor's chest. "Fuck your false sense of martyrdom, Noble. There's a reason why a  _team sticks together._  If you want to play hero, go live up to your name and become a Pecker Checker somewhere in Sudan."  
  
The Oncoming Storm flashed brightly in the Doctor's eyes. He took a menacing step into John's hand. "I'd take your hand off me, now, Ape. You have no idea  _who you're dealing with_ ," the Doctor hissed.  
  
John laughed. "Really? Yeah, I'm afraid of D and D Boy here. Frankly, I've seen Iraqi spider holes more terrifying."  
  
"You like spider holes, Cowboy? There's a reservation under your name for an entire planet of them."  
  
" **Stop it, all of you! Just shut up!** " screamed Rose. The men turned to her in shock, their ears ringing from her piercing voice. She took a deep breath. "Jake, you're right. I'm sorry; I should have told you right away where I was going. But the Doctor's right; Magnussen's lying about something. We got a scan of the book and Kepler's letter and we found something else — an infinity symbol on every page."  
  
Jake gulped down Vitex as he considered Rose's discovery. The blond Northerner was still livid at the Doctor for being the arrogant, heroic fool and even more so at Rose for following him  _like a good little soldier. James Noble aka the Doctor aka Arrogant Bastard might be a genius miracle worker, but one day, he'll get his team killed._  Over the past five years, he had come to love Rose like a little sister; he'd lost his lover Rickey, his best friend, Mickey, and several Torchwood agents to the Dimension Project. At Torchwood, trusting one's colleagues meant survival. Now that she was in this universe permanently, loosing Rose would tear out what little remained of his broken heart. He respired deeply. "Okay. At least we're one step ahead of where we were. Let's…let's just take a few hours to calm down, then revisit the book once we're sound, yeah?"  
  
All nodded. The blonde wrapped her arms around herself, whilst John and the Doctor scowled at each other. Jake replaced the cap on the Vitex bottle as he rushed through the kitchen and double-doors. "I'm goin' for smokes." Rose took the opportunity to turn away from the remaining men and proceed to her room.  
  
"We're not through, clowndick," grunted John, as he headed toward Rose's room.  
  
"No, we're definitely not, Ape," said the Doctor through a threatening, manic grin. John marched to Rose's room and knocked, whilst the Doctor went to the sitting room in the rotunda. He was not leaving whilst the Ape-pretty boy was with Rose.  
  


***

  
  
Rose sat on the white and mauve-covered king-sized bed, her knees to her chest. How did things get so cocked up? Yes, she helped the team by helping the Doctor steal vital information. But in doing what she and Doctor habitually did five years ago, she repeated her history of abandoning those closest to her for the wandering Time Lord.  
  
Here was her taste of what might have been had the Other kept her as a companion.  _Rose Tyler, Defender of the Earth,_  at the price of her family, her friends and her humanity? Her mum and Mickey already paid that price with heartbreak; she couldn't exact payment of Jake or John, nor could she wait outside of the proverbial fireplace, bag in hand, for the Doctor.  
  
Suddenly, a knock brought her out of her reverie. "It's me," said an American accent.  
  
"Come in; it's unlocked," she murmured.  
  
John walked in, his eyes a molten blue mixture of anger, disappointment and relief. He sat next to her on the bed and pulled her head into a desperate kiss, his hands framing her cheeks. "Thank God you're okay," he spoke into her lips.  
  
Rose choked down a sob. "I'm sorry."  
  
John broke the snog, pressing his forehead to hers. "I know, sweet. You were just protecting a friend. An idiot friend."  
  
She laughed through her distress. "Yeah, definitely. But I wanted to find out what was in that book, too."  
  
John smiled faintly. "Of course you did. I wouldn't have expected Rose Tyler to sit idly by while a mystery needed solving. Just…just remember that some of us care about you, babe."  
  
Wrapping her arms around him, Rose nuzzled her head into his warm chest. "I know."  
  
John tilted her head with one finger to look at him. "We've got some time this afternoon. Let's go to the Eiffel Tower. Just you and me, yeah?"  
  
Rose nodded. "Okay, jus' give me a mo,' yeah?"  
  
John kissed her in reply, his lips caressing hers. "I'll be outside, waiting." He slowly stood up and gave her a grin that reached his blue eyes. "Don't be too long." The ex-Army agent strolled out of her room, closing the door behind him. He moved past the rotunda, where James sat on the 360-degree couch, arms crossed, waiting to make his move. John regarded him for a moment before leaving the flat.  
  
 _Poor bastard._  
  


***

  
  
Rose started into her room to prepare for her outing with John when the Doctor spoke at the closed door.  
  
"Rose, we need to talk," the Doctor said in a tight voice.  
  
She opened the door and looked at him, emotionally drained. "Doctor, we can talk about the book later. Right now…" she warned.  
  
"Right now, what, Rose? When? You've been avoiding me," he blurted.  
  
"Doctor, this isn't …"  
  
"Isn't what? Professional? Oh, I'm sorry, Agent Tyler. I thought two years of being together counted more than that!" he shouted.  
  
'Agent Tyler' was shocked, to say the least. The Doctor never became emotional and he certainly never had a go at her. Not unless reapers were coming.  _Too human._  'Agent Tyler' took a deep breath in an attempt to maintain her professional exterior.  
  
"Really? You want to talk. Now. Alright. What is it?"  
  
The Doctor studied her for a moment and then replied in a softer tone. "What happened, Rose? You — we — we were like the old team and then…"  
  
She walked away from him, looking down at the floor, as if debating between possible answers.  _You're not his companion anymore, Rose, she thought to herself._ "Nothing happened," she finally said, avoiding his intense gaze. "We got the book. Isn't that what you wanted?"  
  
The Doctor scoffed, closing the distance between them. "I can always tell when you're lying to me, Rose Tyler. Can  _Johnny Cowboy_  do that?" he snapped in a low voice without thinking. But he found that he did not care. A flash of hot amber sparked in Rose's eyes.  _Good,_  he thought,  _let her feel hurt, like him._  
  
Rose considered him for a moment. She had wondered if he cared about her relationship with John. Obviously, he did, but why? Didn't he tell her that he'd moved on? She was suddenly livid.  _Git. He tells her to move on and then has a fit when she does._  "What does John have to do with this?" she asked icily.  
  
The Doctor smiled, but his eyes were blazing black like an oncoming storm. "Oh, not Cowboy, but John. 'Agent O'Reilly' on the job, but John off work. Made friends with another Tin Dog, did we? But he's pretty — I'll give you that," he spat.  
  
"And during the time I was trapped here, there was no one else, Doctor?"  
  
The Doctor did not have a reply.  _Martha, Donna, Joan Redfern, Astrid, River Song._  He didn't want to, he couldn't tell her about River; how she carried his sonic screwdriver, how she rowed with him…  
  
 _How she knew his name._  
  
Rose laughed mirthlessly. "Yep," popping the p, "That's what I thought. The mighty fucking Time Lord has a set of rules for us apes and another for his bloody self. Don't wander off, unless I leave you first. Then you can fuck right off." He physically recoiled at her use of profanity.  
  
"Rose, I'm sorry. I didn't think about Jake or…"  
  
"No," said Rose coldly, "You didn't. You never do."  
  
The Doctor's eyes flashed angrily. "And just what does that mean?"  
  
Rose crossed her arms, her gaze piercing him like a bullet. "Darlig Ulv Stranden."  
  
"I had to close the breach. Reality would have collapsed! I couldn't risk trillions of life forms for…not even for the one person that I…"  
  
"Tell me, Doctor, when reality did break down, did you ever look for me? If I hadn't come to you, would you have?"  
  
"Rose, you were safe in Pete's World. I couldn't…" he answered quietly.  
  
She gaped at him in disbelief and then looked down at the hardwood floor. "What do you want from me, Doctor?"  
  
He gazed at her longingly with a sliver of fear. What did he want? Frankly, he wanted her for the rest of their lives, traveling through space and time in the TARDIS. But she was clearly with John. She didn't want him. Did she stop loving him after their first goodbye at Darlig Ulv Stranden? Maybe she saw him for what he truly was: a lonely, genocidal maniac unworthy of redemption and love. It was, after all, her choice — he was fine with it.  
  
Right?  
  
After a minute of silence, Rose scoffed. "Right. You don't know what you want. You are the Doctor, James Noble."  
  
The Oncoming Storm had arrived in a small Paris flat. "No, Rose, you and I both know what I want. And he's not just a companion."  
  
At the Doctor's last barb, Rose shook her head in dismay and barely-contained anger. "You're unbelievable. Does Madame de Pompadour ring a bell?"  
  
"What?!"  
  
Rose sniffled back tears. "You told her to pack a bag and be ready to see the stars." His face fell in remembrance. "Doctor, whilst studying for my A-Levels and sitting exams for uni, I read about Reinette's life. She was born to a life of privilege and sophistication. She married well and outsmarted duchesses and princesses to become maîtresse en titre to Louis XV, a man notorious for the latest flavour. Yet underneath that careful invention of silk and etiquette was a very lonely woman who entertained herself by gossiping about other women at court and lived through the successes of others. She moved people under her station — people like me — like chess pieces in service of France, but also for her own pleasure."  
  
"Rose…" the Doctor gasped.  
  
She held up a hand. "When I was on that ship, watching the two of you, I was so  _jealous_ of her. How could an estate chav compete with the Uncrowned Queen of France? But now, I feel pity for the poor woman. She would never have my freedom and she would never be able to create her own destiny. She was all pomp and no circumstance. In the past couple of months, 'specially now, Paris an' all, I've been thinkin' about her. That's why you were fascinated by her, innit? She was like you, like your people. But even she wasn't enough. Even if she didn't have to return to her timeline, you would have left her behind, like me."  
  
She paused to give the Doctor a chance to refute what she said. He hung his head in shame and guilt, shaking it slightly. "Rose, you were always brilliant. You are brilliant. You're my — "  
  
"You're a Lord of Time," Rose interrupted. "I'm an heiress in a parallel world that shouldn't exist. You belong on the TARDIS. I…I belong with my family, with my friends defending Earth." She took his hand, looking into his black, wounded eyes. "Once you get back up there, you'll travel the stars, saving countless planets and civilisations. Even with only fifty years remainin' in your life, maybe sixty or seventy if you're lucky, you'll be a legend — the Doctor, the man who helps people. If you do come back, I could be forty, fifty or sixty years old. Maybe I'll even have died. After a while, I'll be just a memory, one companion in the distant past who loved you, the Doctor, stuff of legends. Doctor, I don't want to be Madame de Pompadour, always waiting and hoping for what will never be."  
  
The Doctor gripped her hand, refusing her words.  _Loved me. Past tense. Fight or flight. Fight._  "What are you talking about? I need you, so much. Rose, my time is your time. I'm here with you!" he shouted.  
  
She was crying openly now, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Then she regarded him harshly with piercing hazel eyes. "Doctor, I'm human. I'm a stupid ape with no time sense, nothing extraordinary about me. Who are you?"  
  
"What do you mean? I'm the Doctor!" he cried.  
  
"Yes, a Time Lord! But is that all?" She touched his chest with the fingertips of her other hand. "And what about the human part? Who are you? Where were you born? Who were your friends and family on Gallifrey? What did you do? Who was your first love? Were you married? What was your favourite adventure? I don't know you at all, I never really knew  _that_  you."  
  
In his mind, the Doctor heard a faint echo from his past.  _"Oh, his heart is racing so….!"_  
  
Taking both her hands to his racing single heart, he whispered harshly, "It doesn't matter. Who I am is right here with you. The man who told you to run in a basement three years ago."  
  
Rose's fell and she pulled her hands from his. "Doctor, John's taking me out."  
  
The Doctor stumbled away in pure anger. His heart was beating so fast that he thought it would explode. At the same time, it felt like it was being torn from the inside, the pain was inexplicable and unbearable. He was out of breath, his lungs depleted. He stopped seeing Rose and instead faced a long white wall.  
  
He wanted to scream, but he couldn't.  
  
He wanted to take Rose into his arms and beg her to see him, but he couldn't.  
  
He wanted to tell her that he marched down the Dalek path to Hell for her, but he couldn't.  
  
 _He wanted to tell her that he would love her for all of Time,_  but he couldn't.  
  
Rose glanced at him, waiting for him to say something. Finally, she said, "I'll see you later." With that, she walked out of her room, down the hall and toward the flat door, beyond which John was waiting.  
  
The Doctor James Noble dragged himself out of her room and wondered aimlessly about the sitting room, clutching his overworked heart and tears freely falling down his face. He was drowning in self-loathing, heartbreak and regret.  _Oh, so many regrets!_  
  
The Man Who Helps People became The Man Whose Heart Breaks.


	11. Le Champs-de-Mars, Scene 1: Happily Ever After?

**Le Champs-de-Mars, Scene 1: Happily Ever After?**

 

The lush green of the Champs-de-Mars seemed to stretch forever from the base of the Eiffel Tower to the avenue de la Motte-Picquet. It was unseasonably warm for early December in Paris, a clear, sunny day of fifteen degrees with a slight breeze. Groups of people decorated the green with picnic blankets, wine glasses and fruits and cheese of all regions of Europe. In the middle of the bare green lay two people in business suits. The blonde woman rested in the larger man's tense arms; she plucked at the grass whilst he examined the Eiffel Tower in earnest. Her amber eyes were red and tired, drained of salty tears. Though the man's hand leisurely caressed her arm, inching occasionally toward her hip and thigh, he stared ahead, his eyebrows furrowing in thought. Finally, the blonde twisted in his arms to face him. His blue eyes flickered in contained anger and unrest.  
  
"What is it?" asked the blonde, her hoop-earrings glinting in the sunlight.  
  
The man in the charcoal grey suit eyed her for a moment, gazed ahead at the Eiffel Tower and said nothing. For the first time since his discharge, he needed a cigarette.  
  
"John, look at me, please," begged Rose.  
  
A stranger might have mistaken John's silence and correct posture for calmness; after years of moving from mission to mission behind enemy lines, John O'Reilly perfected the outward mastery of emotions. Anger brought miscalculation, lust distracted a man from his objective, revenge was often useless and a Ranger's archenemy was panic. Pain, love, fear and adrenalin were all, however, useful.  _All's fair in love and war._  The American looked into her amber eyes; the shock of so many emotions drew her back in shock. Never had anyone except for one Time Lord looked at her with such intensity. But he brooded in the fires of silence. After a few moments of looking at one another, the man finally spoke in a quiet, harsh voice.  
  
"Rose, following that man will get you killed someday."  
  
Rose leaned back defensively, glaring at John. "The Doctor would never harm…"  
  
"No," interrupted John, "I don't think he would ever  _intentionally harm you._  But you don't just abandon your team just for a fucking hunch. And then drawing you into it…"  
  
"Drawing me into  _what?_ " retorted Rose. "Don't you think I can take care of myself?" She crossed her arms in defiance, turning away from the large man.  
  
John squared off his shoulders in tangible anger. He gripped her body tightly and spun her back toward him. "Goddamn it, Rose, that's not it, and  _you fucking know it._  I meant what I said — you're one of the most competent people I know." Rose's face softened, as John took a deep breath. "But when it comes to guys like him… I've spent the better part of my life — since I was 18 — defending my country as a soldier, a Ranger and as an Agent. I knew guys like him when I was overseas. Iraq, Iran, Burma. Every time, Rose, they got themselves killed and took a dozen good guys with them. Us Rangers would have to bag what was left of them." John paused at Rose's hardened look, then took her face in his rough hands, "I don't want to  _bury you._ "  
  
Rose stared into the Ranger's blue eyes. "You won't bury me, John. And I'm not naïve; I've known the Doctor for years. He's saved my life more times than either of us can count and he does it alone; he always has." Her last words trailed off into the open space of the Champs-de-Mars, like a message in a bottle.  
  
 _He does it alone; he always has._  
  
John gazed at her furtively. "And haven't you ever wondered  _why_  he's alone?"  
  
 _He's too dangerous to be left on his own,_  the Other said on the beach. Yet he was too dangerous to be among people in general. How many invasions were due to his presence on Earth? The Madman in the Box, desperate for companionship, lost every single companion he'd ever had. The six-months-old feelings of abandonment, confusion, embarrassment, pride and envy bubbled up from her chest and into her head, her cheeks flushing in a Jackie Tyler-type eruption. "Bugger off, John. You may be a Ranger, but I was fightin' the good fight with the Doctor when both universes were bein' invaded by Cybermen and Daleks. Me and the Doctor, in the TARDIS. Stuff of Legends, we were!"  
  
Upon her outburst, Rose sank into her own body. Just as suddenly as it had appeared, her anger dissipated into quivering pain and sorrow. "I gave everything up for him and he just…left. Then he came back and …" The hurt melted into salty rivers down her slender cheeks.  
  
John's eyes hardened whilst his chiselled features remained impassive. "Rose, I don't question your time together. I don't judge you. We all have a past to bear; you know I was married before. My wife leaving me was …" John paused in reflection; rarely did he ever mention his high-school sweetheart turned ex-wife. "I don't regret ever marrying her or loving her. But we married young. I was twenty; she was nineteen. In the end, we grew into two different people."  
  
Rose sniffled. "I was nineteen when I met the Doctor."  
  
John smiled slightly. "And our marriage fell apart when I was twenty-seven. Divorced two years later."  
  
Rose reached over to squeeze his hand. "Where is she now?"  
  
The American gazed at the picnickers in front of them. A couple was sharing a bottle of 2.11 Sauvignon Blanc. Their glasses clinked in a toast to an unknown occasion. "Lost contact after the divorce. Last I heard, she remarried a guy from our high school football team and had a couple of kids. Still in Laramie."  
  
She gaped at him. "Doesn't that bother you?"  
  
John shook his head. "Didn't want her worryin' about me. Back in 2.01-2.03, I was sent from mission to mission. Fuck, there were times where I didn't even remember what country I was in. We'd leave at a moment's warning. Couldn't really tell her where I was."  
  
The blonde wiped her face, then chucked humourlessly. "Yeah, I thought that was ideal back then. Used to phone Mum once a week, maybe two, from some distant planet in an even more distant galaxy. It got to the point where we didn't even know each other anymore. I wanted adventure; she wanted predictable." Rose peered at John, who was studying her silently. He loosened his tie and undid his Oxford collar with his free hand, his eyes never leaving hers. "Maybe this wasn't about the book," she continued, "maybe I wanted the thrill of the chase." She looked down at her pinstripe suit. "I'm not this. I want to be out there," she gestured toward the blue sky with her head.  
  
John raised an eyebrow. "Doing what, exactly?"  
  
Rose shrugged her shoulders. "I dunno, really. Gettin' my degree in physics and maths was a means to an end. Somethin' to pass the time until I could find the Doctor. Never thought I'd be any good at it."  
  
"Rose, the fact that you're good at it makes it more than just a means to an end."  
  
She blushed. "Ta. The Doctor always said that school was rubbish. Jus' a means." Her voice trailed off again; the pain evolved rapidly into shame.  _How many Estate chavs like her got a second chance?_  Rose let go of John's hand and pushed her blonde hair back over her shoulders. Rose Tyler, Defender of the Earth, Dame of the Powell Estate, Bad Wolf Girl, postgraduate student at Cambridge, studied, mastered and excelled  _as a means to an end._  She was brilliant and  _he left her behind._  
  
 _Now you can do the same for him._  
  
Just a means to an end.  
  
After several moments of silence, Rose gazed into the American's intense, aquamarine eyes. "John, why didn't you go back to New York after the Dimension Cannon went offline?" she asked quietly.  
  
Never wavering from her gaze, he replied solemnly, "Because I'm a Ranger. At no time do we ever leave our people behind." He leaned forward and captured her soft lips with his. A moment later, Rose responded, deepening the kiss, as he pushed them down onto the soft grass.  
  
"I've always wanted to do this," breathed John.  
  
His lover giggled, as she ran her fingertips teasingly across his Oxford collar and buttons. "And what's that?" she asked whilst raising an eyebrow seductively.  
  
He grinned in excited response. "Take a girl to Paris and make out like in the movies," he said as he kissed down her soft neck and behind her right ear, making her moan.  
  
Rose whimpered. "Didn't know you were so romantic, Agent O'Reilly. That's not very Ranger-like of you."  
  
He chuckled, nuzzling her ear. "Shh, don't tell anyone. It's classified."  
  
Rose hummed contentedly whilst he caressed and kissed down her neck.  
  


***

  
  
  
Underneath the bare body of Rose Tyler laid the equally nude form of John O'Reilly. The snogging session at the foot of the Eiffel Tower turned into a burning desire to return to the Tylers' Paris flat a few blocks north. Neither the Doctor nor Jake was inside, which suited the pair of lovers. Rose stilled her breath, making designs on John's muscular chest, not wanting to wake him. She traced the black, gothic lettering "Sua Sponte" tattooed on his right bosom. John rarely slept; though he never explained why or for how long he had experienced insomnia, Rose had, on occasion, heard him shouting terrifying military jargon in slumber:  _Cybers, on your six, fuck 'em up._  
  
Here she was, living a life day after day, one she thought she'd never have. Aboard the TARDIS at age twenty-one, she envisioned a fast-paced life filled with adventure different from the day before and without the  _quaint_  responsibilities of finding a career or a husband. Before she was brought over to Pete's World, she had resigned herself to following the circuitous path of the Time's Champion, never stopping or breathing for another.  
  
Secretly, however, Rose always worried that the Doctor would grow tired of her. Toward the end of their time together, she noticed his eye wandering more and more, from Reinette, to the girl at her father's house and finally, to the Princess of Veloria 7. She would never tell anyone that she kept her bag packed just in case he decided to leave her somewhere. The young Briton was ashamed of her weakness; despite the  _After Wanker_  lesson, once again, she found herself at the mercy of a man who kept his friends close and his emotions even closer. Her first Doctor — all ears, anger and Northern accent — wore his feelings like his old black leather Navvy coat: rustic, raw and uncensored. Rose never had to guess with him, or so she thought. She took a quiet breath, glancing at John's face for signs of consciousness; the man's face was tense with sleep.  
  
 _She never saw the Doctor tranquil in sleep,_  she realised.  
  
Rose saw him in regenerative sleep, but he hadn't been relaxed from lovemaking; the regeneration went  _a bit wrong,_  leaving him feverish and close to death. He never told her why. Months later, she found out, through bits of her proper memory, that she had harnessed the power of the Vortex and became an incarnation known as  _Bad Wolf. He didn't sing the Daleks to sleep; he died after saving me from myself._  Initially, Rose hadn't remembered; the Northerner thoroughly cleansed her mind of Bad Wolf Girl. But Time could not be contained, nor does it disappear. It came back in the oddest ways: in New New York, she noticed little changes in her personality — more cheeky, less impressed with authority. Her mental abilities and physiological healing improved; she no longer suffered from acne, her menstrual cycle self-corrected and her dyslexia became non-existent. Young and alone in her memories, Rose did not know whether to feel shame or pride at what she had done to save her Doctor.  _What would her mum think? Would the Doctor send her home to a world that no longer welcomed her?_  Shortly before meeting Sarah Jane for the first time, fear of the Big Bad Wolf permeated her soul. No human should ever have that power, but she was able, even for but a moment, to control and accept that terrible responsibility.  
  
She held on ever more to the Doctor for sheer survival.  
  
The more she clung to him, the further he ran. He ran into other women's arms, and  _apparently continued to seek out others even after she was taken from him,_  and he ran headfirst into danger not caring about himself.  _Was John right about him?_  Rose lost count how many times he had rescued her or kept her out of harm's way at the expense of...everything. In that regard, he never failed her.  _But was that enough?_  In the private honesty within her mind, Rose knew she always dreaded the answer to that question. For a time, she fooled herself into believing that she was living the extra-terrestrial version of Cinderella: a poor Estate chav rescued from modern British life by a handsome alien prince and transported  _to happily ever after_  in his spaceship. She swore that a connection, a mental bond, anchored them together. The young woman wore an invisible cross of that faith and prayed daily to the lonely god that was the Doctor.  
  
The fantasy ended on Darlig Ulv Stranden, the second time. Rose was left alone with a man she barely knew and told to make a life with him on a path for which he had expressed  _nothing but contempt._  She was asked to  _make him better,_  just like before; he never recognising that would mean  _making him well enough to leave her once again._  
  
John stirred in his sleep, lightly tossing and turning, unconsciously stroking the small of his blonde lover's back. Rose lay her head down on his chest, moving her body in arousal over his. The Doctor had been, of course, wrong about the  _slow path_ : it was anything but slow or dull. Lying in bed with her lover, she felt a sense of completion and stability that she never experienced with the manic alien. Most importantly, it was slow enough that she controlled her own destiny — she didn't worry about needing a passport in Brazil or finding herself on an ordinary street in Aberdeen.  
  
Rose's eyes met John's as sleepy blue squarely met alert amber. "Hey," he mumbled, stretching slightly, before encircling her body and pulling her to him. "I think you're my dream catcher. Stay with me so I can dream some more."  
  
She smiled.


	12. Le Champs-de-Mars, Scene 2: An Honest Heart?

**Le Champs-de-Mars, Scene 2: An Honest Heart?**

 

 _The Man Who Heals People became the Man Whose Heart Breaks._  
  
James Noble sank to the hardwood floor of the rotunda, clutching his single heart in despair. As a full-Time Lord, he had suffered heartsbreak many times, from the loss of his granddaughter and his many companions to the destruction of Gallifrey — a destruction he was forced to cause. In this half-human incarnation, the memories of the TARDIS and his 'sister,' the Doctor-Donna, like an ice pick, impaled his single, human heart. It cracked when he realised that the Other would exile him to the parallel world. It shattered when the Doctor-Donna exposed his feelings for Rose.  
  
Upon returning to Pete's London, Rose avoided him, hiding behind debriefings at Torchwood and noncommittal we'll-talk-laters. He missed her; he had mourned her after the first goodbye at Darlig Ulv Stranden, so much so that for a brief moment, he contemplated standing like a lonely god in the freezing Thames at Christmas in a last, blazing act of heroism. He had every moment in the world to tell her, he thought,  _so long as I showed her._  He wiped furiously at his eyes, burning from the stinging, un-Time Lord-like salt of tears. Doctor James Noble did indeed try to show her: he made a big to-do over Ian Dury, even though it carried little of the appeal that it once had; he dressed in a black leather jacket like his ninth incarnation; he had his ear pierced like the blokes in her estate had. He prattled on about anything, just to see her teeth-touched of these little reminders — Ian Dury, the earring, the jackets, spectacles and blue pinstriped suits — were just as hopeful as they were painful. On the beach — the second time — the Donna-Doctor saw what a right bastard the man in brown had become and perhaps had always been: instead of offering what little comfort three words could bring their Rose, knowing that he would never see her again, he chose to cloak himself in cowardice, anger and revenge, rendering him defenceless in the process.  
  
 _"…Because we saved the universe, but at a cost, and the cost is him. He destroyed the Daleks, he committed genocide; he's too dangerous to be left on his own."  
  
Arsehole. _The Doctor, the Man Who Makes People Better and his progenitor, was also filled with blood, anger and revenge. Both would protect Rose Tyler with their lives; both did. Both were borne of a desire to protect the people they loved. The Other may have been the incarnation, but he was its hand. James Noble saved his family by sacrificing the very beings that kept coming back to annihilate them. What else could he have done? Invited them for afternoon tea, asked them very nicely not to exterminate other beings? Rose was right; his history wasn't perfect — Chamberlain thought Hitler could be appeased. Consequently, the Führer created forty thousand concentration camps and ghettos, twenty million people perished and entire cultures disappeared from Time.  
  
 _"You're an echo, that's all. A Time Lord is so much more. A sum of knowledge, a code, shared history, shared suffering…"_  
  
Like his daughter, Jenny, he was a Child of Time forged in the unforgiving chill of battle. The Doctor's essence was mercy and pacifism that were forever and unconditional. Such was the curse of the Last Time Lord — eternal custodianship of the universe. The universe needed its Champion of Time, so he moved from place to place, never stopping out of the shame and self-loathing he carried from body to body. Lesser species — humans included — were like children to the billions-old civilisation. As the Doctor discovered many, many years ago, James Noble couldn't be, either as a Time Lord or as a human.  
  
Yet his tenth incarnation was an exception. If he was truly honest with himself — and he rarely was — that version of him was no more Time Lord than his current version. It was not made out of the sweet fruit of the Time's Champion or custodianship, but out of the forbidden love for a human woman. Flirtation was tolerated; it demonstrated the superiority and refinement of the Time Lords. Rose never knew how illicit his love really was. Whilst humans love in a single moment despite age, sexual, race and religious differences, Time Lord marriage was a treaty between two timelines. Pairings were based solely on the potential political alliances and suitability of the genomes of both spouses, their ancestors and their descendants throughout all time. Had Gallifrey still existed, he would have been married to his Gallifreyan spouse in each incarnation; his encounter with River Song made him a betrothed man in every sense of the Gallifreyan word. Had Rose stayed on board the TARDIS, the Other would have had to break her heart and honour his time-match to Professor Song.  
  
 _My only love sprung from my only hate._  
  
James Noble, on the other hand, was a free man —  _hominus libertinus._  His nine hundred years of experiences made him the Doctor, yet he wasn't the Doctor in the strict definition of the name. The moment when he committed genocide was his downfall and dishonour as a Time Lord. He possessed nothing for himself except the blood of Daleks he killed and the three words that he felt with all of his being meant for the one woman who saved him on the Game Station. He was now a widower, free from his obligations in the other universe to stay in this gingerbread house of a universe and die in Rose Tyler's warm embrace.  
  
Her name made his chest burn with pain and rage. She refused him; instead, she wanted a fully human Cowboy with whom she shared little suffering. She wanted a normal life, beans on toast, a job defending the Earth and a family of her own. She changed; he stayed the same. Add confusion to pain and rage, he thought, as he slowly stood up to sit on the circular, grey sofa. James scrubbed his face.  _Didn't she ask him not to change?_  He punched the sofa, burning signals traveling through his median nerve.  
  
 _Why? I stayed for you and now I've gone from a Lord of Time to the Tin Dog._  
  
He stayed despite having killed the Daleks.  
  
He stayed and listened to the Other call him genocidal and dangerous.  
  
He stayed after Rose denied that he was the Doctor.  
  
He stayed as Rose ran after the vanishing TARDIS.  
  
He took her hand and entwined his fingers with hers, having been abandoned on Bad Wolf Bay.  
  
If she wants the  _Wyoming Sheep-shagger,_  then he will leave in the TARDIS to travel among the stars. Yet that thought made his wounded heart throb in agony more than his unrequited love. James Noble, ever the Masochist of Time, could never leave Rose Tyler — it went against everything in his being. Human (and non-human) men and women found him attractive; he could have anyone on this planet, if Martha, Joan, Jack and Reinette were any indication. Humans, especially those in contemporary British culture, were serial monogamists, having several mates in one lifetime. Time Lords had one mate for thirteen lifetimes. James Noble may have technically been born five months prior, but the man was the sum of thoughts and cultural norms embodying a Time Lord. The Other's "gift," the Doctor-Donna's consent as kinsman, James's offer to spend the rest of his life with her in front of Jackie Tyler and their kiss before all constituted nothing short of a betrothal, a promise of a single, knotted timeline.  
  
But if he learned anything in the nine hundred years that he had travelled in time and space (he may have told a white lie about his actual age in Earth time), space-time consisted of a series of probabilities, accidents, maybes and never-weres. Every escape and every success was but one possible outcome. As a Metacrisis Time Lord, he could still perceive what was, what is and what could be in everyone's timeline — and the lack of certainty in theirs petrified him. His luck could result in a lifetime of love, adventure and happiness with Rose Marion Tyler; it could also result in the tragedy of helplessly watching his betrothed fall in love and share that life with the Cowboy,  _if she wanted.  
  
Let every man be master of his time._ As a human with a short lifespan, James Noble's time would be revealed in the legacy he would shape and construct. As a Time Lord, the Doctor had no choice but to let history unfold, as it ought, for in the presence of Nature's convulsions, man is powerless. According to Time, Rose belonged in this universe and he'd follow her, no matter the cost. Yet, from what James saw through the Doctor-Donna's thoughts and feelings as a human, the Doctor drove her away whilst he offered the only thing he possessed  _if she wanted._  
  
A broke sob tore from Doctor James Noble's throat; the answer seemed obvious. Stay with her and leave her be. Give entirely to her and destroy the boundaries that defined their relationship. Surrender to passion and be devoured like a hungry wolf's prey. The tall man stood up resignedly; a walk along the Seine would do him well. He marched in a resigned posture down the hallway and into his room for his thick charcoal grey coat, leaving behind his sonic screwdriver.  
  
If there was one thing — just one — that the Doctor James Noble believed in, it was Rose Tyler, Defender of the Earth.  
  


***

  
  
From near the Place d'Iéna and along the sparkling Seine, James gazed at the Eiffel Tower. What tourists considered the most recognisable and perhaps among the most beautiful of Paris's landmarks had been judged a monstrosity by its inhabitants. During his third incarnation, he visited Paris during its construction; he recalled with some amusement the overreaction of several artists and intellectuals in the February 1887 letter to the Commissioner of the Exposition, Charles Alphand:  
  
 _"Without falling into the exaltation of national pride, we are quite right to proclaim that Paris is the city second to none in the entire world. Above its streets and its expansive boulevards, along its admirable banks and among its magnificent promenades, surge the noblest monuments of which human genius has ever conceived. The soul of France, Creator of works of art, shines from among this august bloom of stone. Italy, Germany, Flanders, so rightly proud of their artistic heritage, possesses nothing comparable to ours in Paris, which attract the curiosity and admiration from all corners of the universe. Are we really going to sully all of that? Shall the city of Paris be hereafter associated with the baroque and mercantile imaginations of a builder of machines that makes our city irreparably hideous and dishonoured?"  
  
Heaven forbid anyone humiliate or dishonour the old monuments of Paris dedicated to an oppressive monarchy,_ thought the Donna-Doctor.  
  
In the sharpest retort possible from a master architect, Monsieur Eiffel (whom the Parisians called the Madman) etched seventy-two names of the greatest French scientists and engineers on the Tower, some of whom the Doctor met during his travels: Antoine Lavoisier, Pierre-Simon Laplace, Auguste-Louis Cauchy.  
  
Science met art; before the Eiffel Tower, no monument stood in Paris that honoured the Scientific Revolution and the Age of Progress.  
  
It was both visionary and rebellious.  
  
That rebelliousness and inventiveness led to the Eiffel Tower being the most recognised and visited landmark in all of France.  
  
But more importantly, it was unique.  
  
However, it had one major artistic flaw: Eiffel excluded the name of Sophie Germain, a woman mathematician from the late-eighteenth century.  
  
James Noble did not know precisely why that bit of history came to him at that moment. Time Lord minds were curious, admirable ( _and who wouldn't admire brilliance_ ) and immense; always collecting, analysing, dismissing, sensing, imagining and calculating. He had been to Paris more times than he could remember, but he could not recall ever really looking at the Tower and appreciating its true beauty as more than a wrought iron structure or mere recognisable monument of humanity.  
  
He took a deep breath, the last thought shaking him to the core. The success of the Eiffel Tower came not from being an imitation of symmetry and neoclassicism, but being  _the Eiffel Tower._  
  
He smiled.  
  
"I  _hate Ian Dury_!" he cried to no one in particular. No one cared. He laughed manically. "I hate banana daiquiris!" An old man with a heavy wool coat, purple scarf and black fedora shook his head in bemusement. "Les Ecossais sont fous!"  
  
 _(The Scottish are mad.)_  
  
James made a silent list in his head:  
  
 _He hated daiquiris._  
  
He still thought pears were crap.  
  
There were other fruit besides bananas, though bananas were still good.  
  
He liked Singaporean cuisine.  
  
He wasn't partial to Paris — snob at its core.  
  
He didn't need the sonic for every little job. He had two hands, after all.  
  
He preferred engineering to physics or mathematics.  
  
He fucking hated Cowboy.  
  
A weight lifted off his shoulders, until he remembered what made him Doctor James Noble.  
  
He still loved Rose Tyler.


	13. Le Champs-de-Mars, Scene 3: Délices, Donna and Discord

**Le Champs-de-Mars, Scene 3: Délices, Donna and Discord**

 

 _Being partly Time Lord has its advantages_ , the Doctor thought contentedly, as he exited the Champs des Délices bakery, bag in hand, walked across the bank and to the eastern side of the Eiffel Tower and the Champs-de-Mars. Since his French contained not even the slightest hint of a British accent, he could order three chocolate tartelettes — two for himself and one for his precious girl — and a small box of macarons, despite the line, in roughly five minutes. The pâtisserie's displays had been filled with breads and pastries of all colours, mostly pastels, but bright pinks, yellows, greens and reds decorated the bakery, enticing even the most oblivious tourist to sample the sweet, salty and fruity moist decadence of the Parisian bakery for three to five euros.  
  
The Doctor found that, second to banana, he had a distinct fondness for chocolate and pistachio — even more so when they were paired. But he had to make certain that within those delicate pools of chocolate there was absolutely no trace of pear. He never did understand the French insistence upon polluting perfectly good dark chocolate with the slithery, tasteless, leathery shite that was the pear. He swore that, once the TARDIS was fully-grown, he would go back in time and end the Pyrus's reign of terror once and for all.  
  
 _Fruit pyrite, more like,_  he sneered.  
  
The ringing of his Vitexphone interrupted his gratifying fruit-murdering fantasy involving a Sontaran chainsaw and a cricket bat. The name "Donna Noble" with a photo of a stern-looking redhead and "Pick up, Paper Cut!" appeared on the screen. He pushed the button to answer, as he put on his earphone resembling a blue-tooth.  
  
"Hello, Donna." He opened the small box with the first chocolate tartelette.  
  
"Hi. How's Paris?" asked the redhead dressed in blue jeans and a black sweater sitting on a pushy, cerulean blue couch in a modern, London sitting room. Colourful prints of Van Gogh and Manet decorated the silver-white wall behind and above the couch.  
  
James shrugged, taking a bite of pastry. "I have tartelette au chocolat, so I can't complain."  
  
The redhead gazed longingly at the French pastry. Dark chocolate, no pear; she hated him. Donna crossed her arms. "Oi! You're so rude, James Noble! Eating tarts in front of your poor PA."  
  
"Oi! Poor PA, my foot! You're getting a lot of quid from Pete Tyler, so go buy your own!"  
  
"It's not like there are true French bakeries in London Town, otherwise I would. And I wouldn't share with Spacemen!"  
  
He rolled his eyes. "Fine, I'll bring you back one. Consider it part of your Christmas bonus."  
  
Donna smiled as a small, white shorthair cat jumped up into her waiting lap. The furry beastie purred at her mistress whilst settling in, facing the Doctor and regarding him with intense, green eyes. "She's quite the princess, isn't she?" said Donna, as 'Her Highness' stretched her left paw forward and yawned at the part-Time Lord. Donna cooed at her precious animal, scratching underneath her tiny chin.  
  
He couldn't decide what was more irritating: the cat or Donna cooing at said cat.  
  
His annoyance did not go unnoticed by the fiery redhead from Chiswick. "Oh, don't pay mind to the rude Spaceman," she said to the cat, shooting a glare at him. "Her name is Belle, by the way!" Belle looked at James pointedly, smirking at her mother's reproach of the rude skinny human on the video screen. He sneered in response, displaying a bit of his canine, having mastered Terran Cat language whilst in infancy.  
  
 _Only the Space Idiot would row with a cat he's never previously met_ , thought Donna.  
  
"So, Mr Rude and Not Noble, you have actual food in your flat. I made a point to increase your protein given that Matchstick is not actually attractive."  
  
"Oi!" shouted the Doctor, taking a quick bite of tart. "I'll have you know, Donna Noble, that I've been considered attractive by movie stars, French aristocrats and American soldiers!"  _Not to mention several alien species and Elizabeth I!_  
  
Donna cringed. "Talking and eating?" He scowled. She waited until he finished chewing the last bit of tart and wiped his mouth with a small square napkin. "And what of that girl you fancy? Why aren't you eating tart with her?"  
  
The twinkle in his brown eyes faded and was replaced by a dull ache. Donna immediately regretted the question, as he turned away, sniffing in the warm Parisian air. Although the sunlight obscured his face and the tree behind the bench where he was seated, she managed to catch a glimpse of heartbreak, confusion and something else —  _guilt, perhaps?_  
  
"I'm sorry, Spaceman. She refused?"  
  
James's reply was so faint that it barely registered on the Vitexphone. "I screwed up."  
  
Donna disliked — hated — personal and personnel drama. At HC Clements, she had been known for dismissing administrative assistants and secretaries for the mere rumour of gossip. Fifteen years of running a smooth office taught her that drama and emotional attachments at work always ended in disaster. She winced at the couple in R and D several years back; two of HC's best advert people carried on a torrid affair that lasted six months before they ended their respective marriages to be together. Once married, the women couldn't work together; they quarrelled, shagged and quarrelled some more. They ended up divorcing the following year, literally dividing the department between the two of them. She inwardly chastised herself; as James Noble's employee, she should simply mind her own, run his schedule and stay away from his personal problems. A quarter-million quid salary for a secretary's work was a dream come true for the middle-aged woman. But upon looking intently at the despair in the eyes of the thirties-something man, who seemed both older and younger than his age, she started to suspect that he was in short supply of  _friends._  
  
She took a deep breath, petting the cat in her lap. The cat purred in thanks, gazing at the distressed human in the phone. "Okay, Spaceman, start from the beginning. What exactly did you screw up?"  
  
"Everything. She's…she's with someone else." He blinked, fiddling with the bag in his hand.  
  
Donna shook her head. "So, she's married? Has a boyfriend?"  
  
"Boyfriend," he mumbled. "An Army Ranger from America."  
  
"And how does that mean you screwed up? You didn't know, right?"  
  
He exhaled loudly.  _Why did she have to talk about this? And why on Earth did he leave his sonic at the flat?_  His shaking hands fiddled with the bag.  _Was there a twig nearby? Something for his hands?_  
  
"Or you did know?" Donna covered her mouth to keep from gasping. James Noble, Boffin Extraordinaire, did not seem like the type to chat up another man's girlfriend, especially the girl of a bloody Army Ranger.  
  
James shrugged, murmuring something of a reply.  
  
"Oh, no, you don't. Let's hear the rest of it. There's more."  
  
He glowered. "Do we really have to talk about this? I'm fine. Really."  
  
Donna crossed her arms gently, mindful of the cat who had fallen into a contented sleep. "Yes, we do, because you want to talk. Now, what happened?"  
  
The Doctor crinkled the bag irascibly. "I waited too long. She was mine first, you know? We knew each other well before Captain America came round. But I waited for her and she left me behind."  
  
The redhead frowned in incomprehension. "You parted? Just friends before?"  
  
He shook his head. "More than friends, but not …lovers. She's my..." He coughed into his dark blazer, before continuing, "And no, we didn't part. She…We were separated, by circumstances out of our control."  
  
Her blue eyes filled with empathy and compassion. "And she didn't wait for you?"  
  
The Doctor laughed mirthlessly.  _If she only knew…_ "No, she did wait for me. She came and found me — when the stars went out. It was impossible!" He smiled proudly — only Rose Tyler could so prove me wrong. "But I cocked it up. She thought that I'd moved on, that I didn't want her anymore." At her silent question, James replied, "I told her that people change and move on."  
  
The redhead shifted and rolled her eyes, waking the cat. She petted the cat in apology before glaring at the man. "Well, yes, you did cock that up. And let me guess: Mr Ranger took your place shortly after?"  
  
James hung his head. "She misunderstood me. I've changed…a lot since she last saw me. I'm angrier; less forgiving…Because of the things I've seen and done. I was afraid that she didn't want me. I'm not a hero and I have never been in love before. I've loved, but never like this. It's like…I know I'm not good enough for her."  
  
Donna gazed at him. "James, is that why you never went to her?" She watched as his eyes flashed with a smouldering alien darkness, his profile piercing into her. Belle hissed, her tail having fluffed up in defence of her human. "You have such darkness in you," Donna murmured, covering her mouth.  
  
"I know. That's why I didn't find her. It's better that way."  
  
She trembled unwillingly. "Is it? Darkness can be only cured by light. You can't run away forever."  
  
James nodded. "I know. As much as I want to run, I can't. And I'm rather good at running. I need her. But she doesn't need me."  
  
She smiled faintly to calm the cat, as the feline continued to eye the dangerous human before them. Donna peered at him like a CEO of HC Clements. "You chased her away, so she's not going to take you back." His face fell, despair and self-loathing once again taking residence in his eyes. "Not initially, at least. Be her friend, Spaceman. Show her that you'll never leave, not even if she chooses…" She frowned for a moment, as though realising she'd forgotten an important detail. "We keep calling this … friend of yours her. What's her name?"  
  
The Doctor's eyes filled with unshed tears. "Her name is Rose."  
  
Donna gasped, gesturing with her right index finger. "Rose Tyler! The magazines, the pictures of her…But wait — I thought she was with some movie star. Can't remember his name for the life of me — not really an attractive bloke."  
  
He nodded. "That was a Torchwood story. She's really with Johnny the Park Ranger."  
  
"Now it makes sense." The Doctor raised his head in confusion. "I think Director Tyler knows, James. He said something odd to me when he brought me in for interview. He said that you were on your own and needed help."  
  
He smiled faintly. "Ah, Pete Tyler."  
  
Donna shook her head, "No, but there's something else. He's paying me through his private accounts. Not Vitex or even Torchwood. I'm not supposed to say anything."  
  
The Doctor shrugged. "Is that important? He's rich, a billionaire even. I'm sure he can afford it."  
  
"Just listen, Spaceman! I'm a private employee, not an official PA."  
  
James's eyes rounded into wide ovals in realisation. "Which means that neither Jake, Rose, nor the Ranger know about you."  
  
Donna exhaled in frustration. "But why me? Why would they care about some PA? Jealous that they don't have one?"  
  
"I don't know, Donna. I suspect Pete Tyler may have his reasons."  
  
"So what happens now?"  
  
The Doctor's eyes brightened despite his neutral visage. "We play along with Pete's game, whatever that is. But he's made one thing very clear: the away team can't know about you, especially Rose."  
  
Donna breathed, "Doctor." James looked her expectantly. "I don't like games. I don't like this. Maybe you should steer clear of the Tylers?"  
  
He gasped, firmly shaking his head. "Pete wouldn't be afraid of me. He could easily run me right out of Great Britain if he wanted. No, it's something else." The Doctor nodded to himself, "And I must protect her, Donna. She is my life."  
  
"Then find out, Doctor. And be careful."


	14. The Brilliant Disguise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to spoil a key plot device, but suffice to say that the language contained is in fact real. This is the first of two parts that develop the plot. I broke it up because it seemed natural to end it where I did. Enjoy!

**The Brilliant Disguise**

 

After purchasing his cigarettes from the tabac nearby, Jake had taken the afternoon to walk off his anger at the Doctor and Rose and enjoy a plate of steak frites at the Relais de l'Entrecôte near Saint-Germain-des-Prés. As his French was limited to a few essential words and expressions, the blond, spike-haired Northerner stayed near the tourist areas along the Seine. Paris was not the same alone; before the Darkness, he had gone several times with Mickey and Rose, all of which ended in a jazz bar in the Latin Quarter slurring Edith Piaf in off-key British-accented French or chasing errant Cybermen out of the Louvre after hours. After Mickey returned to his universe, Jake started dating Cyril James, a London media mogul whose empire included the Mirror and half of the British tabloids. They met roughly five months ago whilst Rose was giving an exclusive to the Mirror in exchange for its silence on Torchwood affairs. Though their chemistry paled in comparison to the one he had had with Rickey, he and Cyril carried on a casual relationship built on mutual respect and distance: Jake was the brooding second-in-command to Pete at the semi-covert organisation; Cyril was the workaholic gossip king of Great Britain.  
  
Several hours after leaving John, Rose and the Doctor, Jake returned to the flat as the late afternoon sun crept through its westernmost windows. He faintly heard a young woman giggling and seductive baritone whispers behind the closed door furthest down the hall. He smiled;  _Rose deserves some happiness._  A year ago, he would never have even considered John O'Reilly an ally: he was an ex-military, pretty boy FBI agent whose brass jumped at any opportunity to smear Torchwood before the global community and who arrived under mysterious circumstances at the beginning of the Darkness. Although he was chauvinistic about his country of origin and a proud Wyoming cowboy, John never failed to mind his host organisation or its culture. He was always the first to confront Dalek and Cyberman and put himself in harm's way, never allowing any of his Torchwood associates to run out before him. On the rare occasion that they did, he was never more than a few feet behind them. Some might call him reckless and a glory-hunter; but his actions saved Mickey and Rose during one of their last cannon jumps.  
  
Rose. Jake had been worried about her for the past year. Losing the Doctor at Canary Wharf had made her unstable at the best of times; the prospect of getting back to him had nearly pushed her over the edge. She had become reckless and single-minded in her pursuit, nearly getting the team killed —  _had it not been for John._  Once the human Doctor came through, her self-destructiveness turned into depression and stillness. She never did say what happened between the two, only that  _it just didn't end like she thought it would._  Two or three months after they returned, she started to become intimate with John. Even though they did their best to keep it quiet, Jake noticed the new, close distance between them, the looks oscillating between sex and worship that John gave Rose when he thought no one was watching and the shy, flirty smiles Rose gave him. At first, their relationship surprised him; for the past five years, Rose was faithful to the Doctor, rejecting several men's advances, including John's. But when he saw the human version of the Doctor — James Noble — Jake immediately noticed his clumsiness, brooding arrogance and boredom with the human race. He did little to encourage any sentiment or passion in Rose; from an outsider point-of-view, he seemed to treat her as any other woman on the planet.  _The bloke still believed that he was a bloody Time Lord._  On one hand, James Noble did his best to ignore Rose and act nonchalant over her presence. On the other hand, it was impossible to miss the hungry, emotional gazes he gave Rose whenever he passed her in the corridors. Jake had even caught him in the main floor lavatory literally drooling over a glossy gossip rag photo of Rose in a strapless, red evening gown that prominently displayed her  _ample cleavage._  
  
 _Nowhere to run or hide, the poor bloke loved, lusted and coveted the lost girl._  
  
Jake tried to get him to talk, but all for naught: James either chattered about the abysmal state of Torchwood technology or excused himself hurriedly. Upon learning of John and Rose's new relationship at Pete's meeting the previous afternoon, the passive personality of James Noble quickly switched to the jealous, egotistical and manipulative Time Lord that Jake knew always existed under the carefully crafted geek chic exterior. The Boss, as Mickey called him, was a magician who worked miracles from the mysterious magic of the Time Lords. The first incarnation that they knew of, whom Mickey referred to as Big Ears, was a war-hardened soldier searching for the remnants of redemption and hope in a cold, merciless universe. He was single-minded in his rage, desire and jealousy. He sought second chances.  
  
He wanted Rose and actively competed with Mickey to have her.  
  
The previous incarnation, however, gave no second chances; Mickey was in awe of that man and the dark, burning power he wielded.  
  
The universe and its inhabitants were at his command.  
  
The current incarnation destroyed millions of Daleks without remorse or a second thought.  
  
He was rightly the fire and ice of nightmares.  
  
He was an alien consciousness pretending to be human. The Northerner could sense the human Doctor several feet away — the hair on his neck always raised. Jake was, by no means, an avid reader, but he was unable to resist purchasing and finishing in a single day George du Maurier's Trilby. The novel, once forgotten and dismissed by a senior school-aged Jake Simmonds in favour of computers and disco, shook him to the core. Whilst he resisted the instinct to run far away from the part-Time Lord, Jake did not want Rose anywhere near Svengali. But for all of her secrets and dismissals, Rose eagerly followed the Doctor, leaving behind an anxious Jake and John to debate whether to call for support from Torchwood One in London.  
  
He just hoped that John wasn't an attempt by Rose to get the Doctor's attention.  
  
Rose's bedroom door opened and John walked toward Jake and the kitchen. He wore a white vest, his charcoal grey suit trousers and no socks. His short, sandy blond hair was tousled from small feminine hands caressing and gripping it in the throws of passion and his blue eyes were sleepy and sated. John could make out his 'Sua Sponte' tattoo on the right side of his chest. John flinched slightly upon sighting Jake, knowing that their secret was an open secret.  
  
"Jake," nodded John in greeting.  
  
"John," the Briton replied. Before the Wyoming native could offer an explanation, Jake held his hand up in a peace offering. "Look, John, you and Rose aren't as clever at hiding a good shag as you think. Just…don't hurt her. She's already been through enough, yeah?"  
  
John nodded solemnly. "You have my word, Jake. No games."  
  
The men eyed each other silently in understanding. John turned toward the refrigerator. "I see Olivier put a few Parisian steaks in the fridge. Frankly, I haven't a piece of meat since I left the States."  
  
"Mate, I just had a plate of steak frites for lunch. I oughtn't do it twice," said Jake reluctantly.  
  
John peered at him like a drill sergeant. "For fuck's sake, man, we're going back to London in," he checked his watch, "roughly twenty-one hours. That's going back to food jail. I need my steak and potatoes and I'll cook."  
  
The American had a point.  
  


***

  
  
A little over an hour later, Doctor James Noble opened the door to the smell of beef and mushrooms frying in a red wine sauce? He shut the door and passed through the rotunda and into the kitchen where John was cooking seasoned meat at the stove, Jake leaned against the adjacent countertop, beer in hand, and Rose sat at the grey marble bar. The Doctor's heart twisted painfully when he saw the dress of both John and Rose: the American was dressed rather informally in a white vest and his grey suit trousers whilst Rose, her hair slightly dishevelled and loose, had redressed in her white vest and pinstripe trousers. He could smell human male pheromones and sweat on Rose and Rose's sweat and perfume on John.  
  
 _Bastard._  
  
He smelled nothing on Jake, thankfully. At least he wasn't this universe's Jack Harkness.  
  
Be her friend and protect her at all cost. Summoning all of the courage and Time Lord self-control he could muster, James plastered on a grin and made his presence known to the Torchwood team. "Well, hello! It looks like a mighty delicious barbeque, or whatever the Americans call it," he chortled in a mock Appalachian accent.  
  
Jake and Rose glanced at the Doctor and then each other.  _Rude and not ginger._  "Hello, Doctor," greeted Rose with a small smile. James's heartbeat increased; maybe he could get her to show her tongue. Jake nodded at him uneasily, taking a sip of his beer.  
  
John, however, threw the half-human an icy glare. "It's called dinner, Noble, not a barbeque, as you so butchered the term."  
  
The Doctor's eyes darkened at the Ranger. As he was about to retort, Rose immediately stood up and placed herself between the two men. "Doctor, we're about to have dinner. Perhaps we might go over what your sonic detected from the book?"  
  
The skinny man gazed down at the blonde with pleading amber eyes. In his anger and jealousy over her relationship with John, he had failed to notice how breathtakingly beautiful she looked. His dark eyes softened to their chocolate-coloured orbs.  _How could he refuse her anything?_ Hypnotised by the Bathsheba before him, without breaking eye contact and his mouth parting, he slowly and wordlessly offered the bag in his right hand to her. The Oncoming Storm dissipated over the perfectly calm, golden-brown enigmatic depths that were Rose Tyler.  
  
"What's this?" Rose asked quietly, as she opened it: a box of pastel-coloured macarons and a small white box containing a chocolate tartelette.  
  
He reached up to scratch his head. "Well, I, um," he blushed and beamed, "I stopped at a pâtisserie nearby and thought you might want one. The, uh, macarons are for Jake and Cowboy."  
  
Rose flashed him a tongue-touched grin. "Ta," she softly said. James's heart thudded in his chest.  
  
"Dinner's up," called out John.  
  
Rose moved away from him, attempting to regain some self-control. "I'll go get us a bottle of red wine," she breathed, walking quickly into the dining room. She would not ever admit to thinking that the current incarnation was cuter than the previous two versions. When she first saw him run out of the TARDIS, gun in hand, her disbelief changed into short investigations of his tight bum and slender profile. He seemed younger and more expressive. But he was every bit the Doctor, an alien who made decisions for the little people with whom he surrounded himself and left them behind to avoid any fallout. She could not, she must not, change who he was — every universe needed a Doctor. Selecting a Le Pin from 2.05, Rose opened the bottle to allow the wine to breathe and set the table with four wine glasses. The three men entered the dining room; John carried the steak platter in his left hand and held the mushrooms, roasted potatoes and asparagus in another like an experienced waiter. He set them carefully on the table, whilst Jake carried a baguette and unsalted Monoprix-brand butter. The four sat down, Jake in front of Rose, as she was flanked by John and the Doctor. John placed a steak on each plate.  
  
"They're cooked medium rare; Noble, hope that's okay with you. Bon appétit," said John.  
  
The Doctor shrugged, waiting for his turn to scoop potatoes and asparagus onto his plate. Silence fell upon the group in enjoyment. Taking a bite of potato, Rose asked, "Where did you learn how to cook, John? This is brilliant." Jake and the Doctor looked over at John expectantly.  
  
John wiped his mouth with the blue cloth napkin. "When I was fifteen, I worked the summer as a cook's help in a steakhouse back in Laramie." He reached over to inspect the wine that Rose had chosen. "Damn, sweetness, this is $1,500! Is Director Tyler going to charge us for drinking a bottle of his best wine?"  
  
Shrugging, Rose replied impishly, "This was the cheapest bottle."  
  
The Doctor raised an eyebrow, shoving a piece of cut meat in his mouth. How does the Sheep-shagger know about expensive wines?  
  
John poured her a glass and then filled the other three. He raised his glass and said, "Cheers."  
  
Jake laughed, shaking his head as they clinked glasses. "I'm drinking 200 quid and eating a ten-quid steak."  
  
Rose leaned in toward Jake with her glass. "Benefits of working for Torchwood." She sipped the dark and dainty liquid. John hummed, chewing on a piece of juicy pinkish meat.  
  
"Speaking of Torchwood," interjected the Doctor, "I've analysed Kepler's book. The Latin is certainly not the New Latin of the University. The mathematical equations are even stranger. It's all gibberish. But it comes from beyond the Void."  
  
Rose, Jake and John exchanged an annoyed, puzzled glance. "That can't be; the Void's been closed, by you. Let John take a look, Doctor. He knows some Latin," said Jake.  
  
The Doctor leaned back, rolling his eyes. "I learnt Latin under Cicero and jolly ol' Saint Thomas — that's Aquinas. Mine's perfect. We should focus on the maths instead of wasting time on non-universalism. The equations should tell us how it arrived here."  
  
Jake exhaled in exasperation, seizing the opportunity to wipe his mouth with the napkin in his lap whilst John scowled at the half-alien. Setting her glass down carefully like a frustrated parent, Rose stared hard at him. "Doctor, you can work the maths since none of us can. Let John have a look at the Latin. Show us you're right; it can't hurt."  
  
James Noble gaped at Rose. Never before had she openly expressed doubt about his fortitude in elementary knowledge. An idea swiftly occurred to him; showing all would prove his superiority and his claim as decidedly the alpha. He had nothing to lose. Smirking haughtily, the Doctor pulled out his screwdriver and pointed it at the bare, off-white wall facing the dining table. A green light emanated from the neon blue tip of the screwdriver, covering the entire wall. Within a second, the green changed to a perfect, three-dimensional image of an old book about five centimetres thick. The Doctor put away the sonic and waved his fingers to turn the 'page' on the wall. "A little show with dinner?" he asked cheekily.  
  
Both Jake and Rose squinted blankly at the wall. Other than the rudimentary French that they learnt in senior school, all languages other than English might as well have been Ancient Greek. Rose sighed; this was one of many times that she missed the TARDIS. The first full page with handwriting was not the late-medieval Latin script of sixteenth-century Europe, but of doubled vowels, single consonants and wedge-like script with dots between or above the symbols. In the upper right-hand corner was a lemniscate.  
  
The beginning paragraph consisted of a run-on scrawl:  
  
 _"Mekwâtacki âyinentankono,nacke,Tepentciketcotentcinimanokipinâkositâkon pâwâmowinink,kiikitonitc,Tcosif,Tefitwekwisimik,kekowînnanisânentankentciotâpinatcki witikemâkanMeri;iiwsâkâkikickankpiniatcâkonkontcimâkatini."_  
  
"There's your infinity, Rose, in the upper right," gestured Jake.  
  
The wine glass fell completely out of John's hand, splashing the expensive burgundy liquid all over the table, onto the bread and his white vest. He rose slowly, mumbling the words under his breath, whilst Rose and the Doctor scrambled to wipe up the vast spill. The soldier had not moved the entire time they cleaned up the mess. Jake and the Doctor looked up at him, as Rose stood next to him in concern. "You all right?"  
  
John nodded. "Yeah," he breathed, "Noble's right; it's not Latin. But it's not gibberish."  
  
The Doctor shook his head. "It can't be Scandinavian unless the dialects are radically different in this universe."  
  
Unable to tear his eyes from the wall, John replied, "For all of your five million languages, Noble, I'm surprised that you didn't see this."  
  
"Five billion," corrected James, "and what I am not seeing, Cowboy?"  
  
John coughed nervously. "It's from the Gospel of Matthew. Matthew 1:20, actually: 'But while he thought on these things, behold, the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a dream, saying, Joseph, thou son of David, fear not to take unto thee Mary thy wife: for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Ghost.' I don't know how in the hell Kepler or Tycho Brahe would know this language, or why the Gospel of Matthew has anything the fuck to do with astronomy."  
  
Rose stroked his arm gently and calmingly, much to the visible irritation of the Doctor. John patted his right hand to hers, smiling slightly.  
  
"What language is that, John?" Jake inquired.  
  
Before O'Reilly could reply, the Doctor approached the wall. "It's Ojibwe, a Native American language of the Great Lakes and Canada. Nowhere even near Denmark. I don't know why I didn't see it the first time. This is just impossible! It's like…the timelines are merging into one single wrong timeline. The Ojibwe in Denmark? Mathematical equations that always result in infinity or make no sense at all? The Bible of all books? Not even a single Shakespeare or Harry Potter reference?" He shot daggers at the blond ex-soldier and continued, "But wait — the question is how you know it, John."  
  
John quietly sat down at the table, Rose and Jake copying him. The Doctor remained standing, looming over the Ranger in silent demand for an explanation. After a moment, the man shot him an outraged, smug expression, breaking off a piece of wine-soaked bread and popping it in his mouth.  
  
"Because I spoke it with my mother and grandmother."


	15. The Pissing Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes in Ojibwe are mine. Now, my dear readers, can you solve the mystery? How deep does the rabbit hole go, Alice? And what is up with infinity?

**The Pissing Game**

 

Where there had been companionable silence at the dinner table, it was now motionless and eerily quiet. The Doctor, arms crossed, betrayed no emotion as Jake and Rose paled in shock at the American. "You're an Aboriginal?" asked Jake. "But you don't look…."  
  
"Indian?" interjected John, glancing at the Northerner. "No, I don't suppose that I would, given that I'm blond and blue-eyed. But we're never what we seem from the outside, are we?" he said, scowling at the half-alien who raised his eyebrows in silent response.  
  
"But I thought that Indians were just stories of American tales," murmured Rose.  
  
The Doctor watched John's discernable discomfort with some interest and amusement. Though years of practice in battle would make his movements appear ordinary to the human observer, he noted the minuscule tremble of John's right hand, the flicker of his eyes from molten azure of love and tenderness to the ice blue of fear and vulnerability.  
  
 _He finally found Captain America's weakness, he noted haughtily._  
  
"Oh, don't let American tall tales stop you, John O'Reilly," quipped the Doctor, mocking John's surname.  
  
John paused. No doubt that the man before him — James so-called Noble — gleefully awaited the chance to have the upper hand in this game of pushing buttons. He looked intently into the Gallifreyan's dark eyes; beneath the bitter jealousy of his relationship with the woman the alien loved lie a deep, parallel insecurity and secretiveness.  
  
"For your information, Noble," John said with equal sarcasm and derision, "my name is John O'Reilly. My father's family is Irish and has been in Wyoming since the early 1900s. But my mother was mixed Ojibwe, Swedish and French. Her mother was a first speaker from Leech Lake in Minnesota."  
  
Rose shook her head. "Sorry, but what's a first speaker?"  
  
The Ranger took his eyes off the Doctor to gaze upon Rose's face. No fear, no repulsion. Her amber eyes reflected curiosity, compassion, awe and a spark of arousal. Discovering his secrets turned her on? He smiled, opening his hand to her, which the blonde gently seized. "It's what we call native speakers of Ojibwe. Before she was sent away to school, my grandmother spoke only Ojibwe. The U.S. Government, wanting to essentially eradicate Indian culture and language, forced Ojibwe children to go to reservation schools to have their culture quite literally beaten out of them. The teachers punished those who spoke Ojibwe. They cropped the kids' hair, told them they were dirty Indian bastards and that it was for their own good as savages," recounted the Ranger with a hint of bitterness. "But my grandmother, even after marrying a fisherman with an iron boat full of whiskey from Walker, Minnesota, kept the language alive by teaching my mother and her brother. My uncle refused to speak it outside of the home — he didn't want to be an Injun — but my mother was proud of her Ojibwe heritage and taught me. I learned it as my first language, much to my father's displeasure."  
  
The Doctor's eyes softened, Rose gazed at him in wonder and Jake slapped his shoulder in solidarity. "So you're truly an American, mate," concluded Jake.  
  
"So that means you're a first speaker, as well," supposed the Doctor, uncrossing his arms and tugging on his ear.  
  
"Yes and no. My mother passed when I was seven and my grandmother when I was fifteen. I really haven't spoken it since. You have to share the language to be a first speaker. Language itself is sacred to the Ojibwe."  
  
"Wait — Minnesota. That's not sheep ranching. Sheep don't like to be cold, Cowboy. You know that. So…how did your mother end up in Baaa-land?" quipped the Doctor.  
  
"Knock it off, Doctor," barked Jake whilst Rose peered at him disapprovingly, her lips aghast as though he had been caught with his fingers in the jam jar.  
  
John rolled his eyes in annoyance, stretching his muscular legs underneath the table. "My dad served in the Air Force in the sixties during the Southeast Asia Crisis. Before being sent overseas, he was stationed at Duluth in Minnesota, where my mother was working in a diner near the base. And by the way, clowndick, he's a cattle rancher. Though if you're getting cold at night, I could set you up with a neighbour of mine and his pretty Wyoming ewes," John smirked. "I'll even get you a deal — half-price."  
  
John relished the initial shock and then dark rage build up in the alien's eyes. A twisted grin suddenly appeared on the lanky man's face. "Nah, I'll pass on the ewes and the Rocky Mountain Testicle Festival, ta. Such fine culture in Wyoming, eh? What do you think, Rose?"  
  
"Blimey, I wonder if Dad keeps a metre stick in the flat. That way you can both get 'em out and compare," remarked the blonde in an exasperated tone.  
  
John snorted. "That's okay, sweetness. I know Noble here has a lot of experience examining…"  
  
"That's enough, the both of you," Jake interrupted sternly. "Let's get back to the issue at hand." He rubbed his eyes, muttering fuckin' hell under his breath. Neither one of the men broke eye contact, instead snarking wordlessly at each other. Jake flashed a glance of sympathy at an embarrassed Rose, who was busying herself with a keen study of the top of her hands. "John, can you read the book in its entirety? Doctor, you can work the maths. You'll have to read from the same book, as we've only one copy."  
  
Both men nodded, never taking their eyes off one another.  
  
"Rose, you and I will research your infinity symbol. I'd rather have a complete picture before meeting with Magnussen tomorrow morning. He's lying about something — what is the question."  
  
"Yeah," replied the blonde, shifting her eyes from her hands to the two men that were most dear to her. Jake stood up and guided Rose from her chair and into the rotunda.  
  
The Doctor and John, left to their own, resignedly faced each other in mistrust.  
  


***

  
  
Jake sat expectantly next to Rose's slouched form on the fluffy, white cover on the Jake's bed. Her left eyebrow was raised, her amber eyes larger than normal; she was lost in thought, about what she had learnt and what she had just seen. Never before had she seen John so vulnerable and never had she seen the Doctor take so much pleasure in exploiting it. The young woman was horrified; since when did the Doctor start and participate in such low behaviour as a pissing match?  
  
 _He'd done it in Utah, multiple times with Mickey the Idiot and with himself in Norway. She was at least part of the reason in all cases._  
  
"Rose, talk to me, yeah?" said Jake gently.  
  
She shrugged. "I dunno what to say. I'm sorry, Jake. It's my fault."  
  
Jake shook his head. "No, Rose. They'll figure it out. They've got to."  
  
She let out a tense, emotional breath. "Yeah, I know, mate. I've just got this last mission and then I can walk away."  
  
He tilted his head at her, aghast. "Rose, are you leavin' Torchwood?"  
  
Rose beamed. "Yeah. John, my parents and now you are the only ones who know. I got accepted to Cambridge for a PhD in physics in the coming year."  
  
Jake pulled her into a tight hug. "God, Rose, that's wonderful, love! Congratulations! Doctor Rose Tyler! I quite like the sound of that." He pulled away to look at her. "So, what about John and the Doctor?"  
  
Rose's bright grin faded into a thin, pink line. "I don't know, honestly. John and I have only been together for a few months and we've only recently been…intimate. I can't ask him to follow me to Cambridge, with his job an' all. And as for the Doctor, once the new TARDIS is ready, he'll be off to the stars and we won't see him again."  
  
He gave her a sceptical squint. "That's not what I saw, love. I saw two blokes fightin' over the same bird. It'd have been worse had the Doctor known that this is your last mission. Both are invested."  
  
"No," disagreed Rose. She gave Jake a sharp, predatory stare. "The Doctor can't be invested. S'not who he is. For nine hundred years, he's travelled through space and time without accountability to anyone." The young woman's head fell toward the floor and she murmured, "Every bloke's dream." Taking a deep breath and running a hand through her straight blonde hair, she continued, "Jake, he dumped me on some remote beach in Norway with his alternate self who can't even be arsed to talk to me. I'm to fix him, as though he's some bloody stray cat, so he can move on."  
  
"Is that what he said?"  
  
She nodded, a tear falling down her cheek. "Yeah, more or less. I know that it's … hard for him to adapt to human life an' all, but s'not like he'll be livin' on the slow path for much longer. Once he has the TARDIS, he'll go off like he was, despite bein' human, and never givin' me any more thought past the second year. He may even be able to find a planet to extend his life. What you saw back there was ego, not…"  
  
Not love, she wanted to finish.  
  
Jake rolled his eyes. "Oh, bollocks, Rose. I know a pissing match over a woman when I see it. If the Doctor said that he couldn't invest in you, then he's a fucking liar — he already has. John, I know, is invested in you."  
  
"Then why can't he say it?" whispered Rose.  
  
He wrapped the woman in a brotherly embrace. Rose relaxed into his arms, placing her feet underneath them. "I dunno. I reckon that he's unsure — of you, himself, who he is. I'm not sure if he'll ever really know. He wants you; the question is, do you want him? Maybe he meant that you've moved on?"  
  
Rose paused. She hadn't thought of the possibility that he thought she'd moved on without him.  
  
Jake inhaled deeply, attempting to keep an objective point of view. "Rose, just don't use John to get the Doctor's attention. S'not fair to him, yeah?"  
  
Rose gasped in anger. She sat up and spun toward him. "I'm not! I — I never intended on gettin' with John, yeah, but I'm not usin' him. He's strong, loyal," she smiled faintly, "sexy, incredibly sexy. Great body. I don't have to keep wonderin' if he's gonna leave or get bored one day. I don't have to worry 'bout bein' left on some planet never to see my mum or dad ever again. I like him, a lot. I get wanderlust sometimes, like the Doctor does, yeah? But in the end, he's someone who'd be 'long side of me, not ahead of me."  
  
A knowing smile appeared on Jake's face. "Good. Then let's find out what this symbol means."  
  


***

  
  
At the dining room table, John and the Doctor each worked through their own copy of the  _Diarium hominum impossibilium,_  which the latter man created for the  _slower reader._  The Gallifreyan poured over line after line of gibberish equations: they resembled something of M-Theory; strings and membranes bound by knotted forms of atron energy. But the equations about as much sense as a child's scribblings: instead of workable three to five superstring theories, they quickly resulted in at least ten to one hundredth power possibilities, impossible for even a part-Time Lord to resolve.  
  
 _The book gave a completely new meaning to timey-wimey._  
  
After turning a page, each man glanced up at the other menacingly and then focussed on the book. Fifteen minutes non-stop of this activity, John finally crossed his arms and broke the silent détente.  
  
"What's your problem, Noble?"  
  
The Doctor gazed upon Rose's pretty boy. "I don't have a problem. I'm busy working super symmetry, which itself is odd considering that humans had to wait until the twentieth century to screw up the beauty of theoretical physics. Tired of reading yet, Chimp? What's the Ojibwe say, or shall I do your work, too? Frankly, it'd be more efficient and," he smirked, "error-free."  
  
John scoffed. "God, you really are a weeping dick, aren't you? Twenty years in the Army's taught me a thing or two about your type."  
  
James faced him threateningly. "You sure you want to elaborate, Soldier Boy?"  
  
The Ranger shrugged, placing his arms behind his head in a relaxing gesture. "Anything for you, D and D. You're the type that's pissed off at the world, so you drag everyone around you into your special brand of time-and-space jacking off so that they can't see what a pathetic, disloyal weasel you really are. You lead people behind and those you don't either end up killing or being killed. Yeah, I'm sure you've saved the multiverse multiple times, but how much of it was your fuck-up to begin with?"  
  
Doctor James Noble did not reply. His eyes turned the blackest form of sinister and stormy and his mouth turned into a predatory sneer. The air stilled as though they were in a vacuum; no sound, no flat clatter, no voices of Parisians passing by the building. Then he laughed softly, dark and insane at the same time.  
  
The Ranger paused uneasily.  _Did he push him too far? Would he hurt Rose?_  He watched the man across from him. "The book, even in Ojibwe — and it's written in Minnesota dialect — doesn't make sense cover to cover. However, there are stories within stories."  
  
The Doctor did not reply; he simply studied the Ranger.  
  
After a moment of silence, John went on, "The book mentions Grandmother, the moon, Grandfather, the sun, and Winaboozhoo, the Original Man, and separate paths. I haven't finished translating it. But I'm not sure Tycho wrote it. It's definitely a native speaker of Ojibwe's script or narration."  
  
Black death reverted to chocolate brown in the half-alien's eyes. "Well, the book's aptly named — impossible. Not even in this universe do the Ojibwe meet the Europeans before the late-seventeenth century. So how do Tycho Brahe and Kepler have access to written Ojibwe that, again, isn't known to Europeans outside of the trappers until the nineteenth century? Any pictographs?"  
  
"There's one that appears over and over again — the 'Long Night Moon,'" affirmed John. "It refers to the month of December. No year, though. What about the math?"  
  
The Doctor slouched his body in thought. "Impossible math for the time, not to mention that the math is impossible. It just doesn't follow — and the Time Lords were the most mathematically advanced race in the universe."  
  
John scrubbed his face, running his hands over his sandy blond five o'clock shadow. "Could someone be sending us on a wild goose chase?"  
  
James examined his sonic screwdriver. "I made this not even three months before entering this universe, so it's not faulty. According to the sonic, the age of the manuscript is 412 years old, which corresponds to what Magnussen told us, but the paper is beyond the void, it's…oh no, no, no, no, no…That is impossible." At John's raised eyebrows, James looked and banged his screwdriver, "Work, damn you!"  
  
"What's the problem?" came a feminine voice. The Doctor and O'Reilly glanced up to see Rose and Jake coming out of the hallway leading toward the bedrooms.  
  
James slapped the sonic again. "This i-i-i-i-is bloody impossible!"  
  
Rose snorted. "If I had a quid for every time you've said that…"  
  
"Oi!" cried the Doctor. "This is! How can something be older than the currently-known universe?"  
  
Jake frowned. "You said something before about that in the meeting back in London, about some experiment?"  
  
The Doctor suddenly jumped up out of his chair and grabbed his hair, fraying it in all directions. "Oh! The paper came from the rock! That rock — the one that Magnussen destroyed — it's stone paper! But the problem is that it's," he glanced at the sonic once more, "14.2 billion years old. This universe is roughly 13.8 billion years old."  
  
"So…we have a book made of stone paper from beyond the universe in the hands of Tycho Brahe and Kepler that shouldn't exist. Bloody marvellous," muttered Jake. "What about the text, John?"  
  
"Same; a bunch of tales from Ojibwe culture and more gibberish. But a name keeps appearing, someone that doesn't exist in traditional Ojibwe oral narrative. Gaawinwiikaanibo, with the symbol for December."  
  
"Which means?" asked Rose.  
  
"He or she who never dies," finished the Doctor.  
  
Rose stared at the group, slowly raising her arm from her side. "No mention of extra-terrestrials? Wait a mo' — if this book is in Ojibwe, then how did Magnussen know that it contained references to aliens? He claimed that it was nearly illegible Latin."  
  
The three men paused, exchanging curious expressions;  _how did the Dane know that?_  The Doctor beamed at his former companion. "Rose, you are brilliant! Always asking the right questions, you are!" Without warning, the alien slid over to Rose and seized her into his arms, lifting her into the air and twirling her against him. The Ranger bolted out of his chair at the table and approached the man holding his girlfriend. Rose relaxed into his playful embrace, astonished at the level of physical contact he'd initiated. James gently set the startled woman down, stroking a strand of her medium-length hair to calm her, smirking at the visibly irritated American. "Rose's right; either the good Dr Magnussen reads Ojibwe, which is unlikely, or he knows more than he is telling."  
  
"There's nothing alien-related in the book, Noble. And couldn't it have made that up? You know that several organisations are looking to embarrass Director Tyler?" said John, putting his hand on the small of Rose's back.  
  
"I agree with the Doctor, John," interjected Rose. "If they wanted to embarrass Dad, then why not just make some political story up, yeah? The rock is extra-terrestrial."  
  
Before John could respond, a low rumble shook the flat; the paintings and shelves shifted rapidly left to right, some falling, and the glassware on the edge of the table slid and shattered on the floor. Jake screamed to the other three "Doorframe!" as they scrambled for purchase to keep upright. The Doctor and John both escorted Rose to the nearest frame entering the rotunda. As they reached the doorframe, the shaking, just as suddenly as it began, stopped. All regarded each other for injury and then inspected the broken glass on the hardwood floor.  
  
Jake, shaken and discombobulated, gasped, "What the fuck was that?"  
  
John went to a window and opened it, sniffing the brisk Parisian air. "I smell smoke. Explosion."  
  
A ringing pierced the group's general disorientation. Jake ran to his bedroom in search of his Vitexphone. An echo of "Yeah, Olivier, what was that?" could be heard from his room. Roughly a moment later, Jake repeated yeahs and "I'll turn on the telly" down the corridor and into the rotunda. The Doctor took out his phone and gave it to Rose, who pressed the app for BBC 1; she would ask him about the Rose's World App later. They gathered around the small screen, with the Doctor slipping on his spectacles. The male commentator, Peter Stone, live from Paris at 20.30, microphone in hand, was reporting outside a concrete hole in the ground.  
  
 _"At approximately 8.20 this evening, an explosion rocked the centre of Paris in the seventh arrondissement. Near the Invalides and the Ecole Militaire, on a quiet corner of the Rue Barbet de Jouy, was the Swedish Embassy. Behind it, the Musée Rodin; both now completely levelled by an unknown explosion. Casualties are unknown, but our thoughts and prayers go out to those who may have been injured or killed."_  
  
Rose pressed mute on the Doctor's phone. All looked around in alarm. After a moment, the Doctor spoke, "This isn't a coincidence and I've seen many."  
  
Phone to his ear, Jake growled, "Olivier, see you in ten."


	16. Saving Someone

**Saving Someone**

 

_When I was a full Time Lord, after saving the Earth, the planet or even the Universe — depending on who or what was involved — like a time-travelling Gary Cooper, I dashed inside the TARDIS and began another adventure. It was the same old life for me, Last of the Time Lords. The notion of aftermath was a footnote, really, a fact of universal history that I was required to know. Like so many humans of the twenty-first century and later, I read about the Holocaust, Nanjing, September 11, Srebrenica, the Killing Fields of the Khmer Rouge, the Massacre of Ton'alkbat on Velorian 5, Davros's systematic eradications of thousands of civilisations. I wasn't party to any of them. I didn't really know what blood, pain, death and hopelessness were. Except in one life. The Battle of Arcadia. And I don't like to think about it._   
  


***

  
  
20.45  
  
7e arrondissement, Embassy of Sweden  
  
The smoke, rotting flesh and moans of pain echoed in the warm night in the City of Lights. As Rose, John, Jake and the Doctor exited their vehicle, leaving Olivier behind, and flashed their badges to the national police and Interpol to be allowed into the crime scene, the nauseating smell of the dead reached their nostrils, causing the Doctor to clutch his stomach and stifle bitter bile rising up his oesophagus. In the place of quiet streets and a gated Swedish embassy lay piles of rubble, ash, fire, metal, water and ripped fabric resembling a flag. Apartment complexes across from the embassy were partially destroyed: windows were missing glass; pieces of offices landed inside some of the apartments; the front was a charcoal black instead of cream and brown; cars overturned and destroyed. On the street, medical crews treated miscellaneous injuries. The four British agents could hear shouting in French and Swedish in the distance toward the Musée Rodin, cries for help and ambulances rushing to and from the scene.  
  
"Jesus Christ," breathed John.  
  
Jake flashed his Torchwood ID to the police command centre. "Agent Jake Simmonds, Torchwood. Might we be of assistance?"  
  
A woman stepped forward to greet Jake. "Capitaine Maryam Diop. We have the situation under control. However, we could use help for search and rescue in the Embassy area as well as near the Musée Rodin."  
  
"Of course, Captain. One question, if I may: what happened here? Terrorism?"  
  
Diop regarded him carefully, as if choosing her words. "It's early in the investigation, but we believe that it was a bomb attack. We haven't found the device yet."  
  
Jake nodded. "Anything we can do. Captain, these are my associates, Agents Rose Tyler and John O'Reilly, and our scientific consultant, Doctor James Noble. The latter's completely fluent in French, if that'll be useful to you."  
  
The Captain scoffed. "There's English fluent and there's fluent."  
  
James glared, despite intense nausea. "Ma mère est française," he growled irritably in a perfect French accent from Caen. Rose and Jake stifled a snicker at the Frenchwoman's expense. John watched quietly in amusement.  
  
Diop's eyes widened. "Bon. Well, since he's French, we can use him to communicate with any injured tourists or Swedish workers. Vous êtes médecin ?"  
  
"Non, je suis physicien," replied the Doctor.  
  
"Then he'll translate for the medical teams," said Diop to Jake.  
  
Jake turned to his group. "Doctor, you and Rose follow the Captain's instructions. John, come with me. Captain," he faced the woman, "John was in special ops from America; he's well-versed in emergency procedures."  
  
"Very well; you both will follow me," replied the Captain.  
  
Jake nodded and motioned for his team to approach him, as Diop walked away to give him a moment with his team. "We'll have to split up. Find survivors and also be on the lookout for anything related to Magnussen. Something tells me a bomb at a Swedish Embassy and a lethal virus on the Danish-Swedish border aren't mere coincidence."  
  
"Understood," replied John.  
  
The Doctor coughed, covering his mouth with his black blazer. Being part-Time Lord, his sense of smell was far superior to a human's; the horrible aftermath perfumed the air and poisoned the Doctor's equilibrium. The tall, lanky man halted, bent over and vomited.  
  
 _Bloody human nervous system._  
  
As the two men watched, Rose walked quickly over to the part-human Time Lord. "Are you okay?" she asked gently, stroking his hunched back. In response, he emptied the partly digested steak and wine from dinner. She looked up at Jake and John. "Go with Captain Diop; we'll be fine." John touched Rose gently on the shoulder and turned away from the pair, with Jake a step ahead of him.  
  
Spitting and gagging the last of the vomit, the Doctor wiped his mouth. "It's from the Metacrisis. My 'human' senses are more sensitive and heightened, so I can…smell everything. I can't…control my responses as I used to as a full Time Lord."  
  
Rose ran a soothing hand through his longish brown hair. "Welcome to the human race, Doctor. I can smell it, too. It's…horrifying."  
  
"Rose, you can go ahead. I'm okay," he said, never taking his eyes off the ground. His vomit had mingled with small, drying tributaries of blood.  
  
Her cool hand stroked his hair and moved to caress the back of his neck. The man leaned in to her touch greedily. "I'm where I want to be, Doctor."  
  
The Doctor looked up at the blonde with a mixture of awe and shame. "But you're not…I mean, you're not like me. You're able to keep it together."  
  
Rose frowned, moving her hand from his neck to his left cheek. "Doctor, I've had…practice, as a human. Whilst we were separated and I was dimension jumpin', I saw so many bad things, so much death and destruction. In one universe, the Nazis won and killed millions. In another, London perished in a nuclear disaster. I couldn't do anything but watch."  
  
He looked down in horror and ignominy. "I'm so sorry. Never would I want you to see anything like that."  _My Rose,_  he murmured, a prayer to some benevolent goddess to cleanse the destruction from their minds.  
  
She smiled slightly. "I know, Doctor."  
  
The Doctor suddenly turned his ear toward ground zero of the explosion. His brown eyes widened in shock, fear and hope. "I hear survivors, Rose!" Before she could reply, the man sprinted away from her and into ground zero, ignoring the yells of police and emergency workers to keep out of the danger. She chased after him, calling his name, as she flashed her identification badge at faceless groups of people. Rose thought she heard a voice in the distance shouting her name, but her focus narrowed to only the Doctor. Five seconds later, she skidded to a stop, where the Doctor was attempting in vain to lift a concrete slab of wall. "Aidez-nous ! Ici!" he shouted. Rose took the other side of the slab and lifted with the Doctor, sweat escaping her brow in exertion. She screamed, the exertion turning into sharp pain, as the Doctor grunted in frustration. They finally moved the slab to the side, uncovering one body whose breaths were feather faint. A brown-haired man in his forties moaned in pain, mumbling alternatively in Swedish and French. He was laying upon another, badly burnt woman whose lower limbs were missing from the rest of her body. The woman had stopped breathing a few moments before their arrival.  
  
The Doctor took out his sonic screwdriver and scanned the man for injuries. "He has three broken ribs, a punctured lung and shattered shoulder. He'll die without immediate medical attention. The woman is…gone. She died five minutes ago, give or take. Probably asphyxiation occurred before she could bleed to death."  
  
Rose looked up to the medical crew who had come to help move the wall; they pushed the Doctor out of the way. One of the men, Rachid, studied the half-human who was watching the crew secure the survivor. "Sir, you found them? But you could not have?" he asked in his somewhat broken English.  
  
"My hearing is far better than average," the Doctor started to reply in French as he heard the wails of more voices closer to the point of explosion. A pile of debris blocked entrance. He turned to Rachid urgently. "There are more people alive. We have to get in there."  
  
As Rachid, Rose and the Doctor advanced on the two-metre-high pile of glass, steel and building, an electrical spark flashed, causing Rachid and the Doctor to back away, the latter man in front of Rose protectively. The flash echoed throughout the Doctor's vast Time Lord mind:  
  
 _Blast them back!  
  
There's nowhere to run. Dalek ships surrounding the Capital…_  
  
James Noble's brown eyes turned pitch black and bloodshot, looking around excitedly for danger in the narrow tunnel of dark sky. He neither heard Rose call out to him worriedly, nor did he see Rachid's motion to follow him around the rubble. In the distance, a second electrical line sparked and generated a small burst, a firecracker-like sound cutting through the stale air of death and destruction. Rose felt a pair of hands pull her face down to the ground, the smell of sandalwood, stardust, hair gel, human sweat and vomit surrounding her. A human head covered hers, sets of hands intertwining. Rose, disoriented, moaned the Doctor's name as both question and plea.  
  
"It's okay, Precious Girl, it's over. The Daleks can't see us," he whispered.  
  
"Doctor, there are no Daleks here. There never were." Rose moved to escape from underneath the larger man, but his hands slid suddenly to her forearms, pinning her to the ground.  
  
"Don't move!" he hissed. "They'll find you! You mustn't move!" She froze at his voice, emotional and detached at the same time. His body shivered involuntarily, adrenalin pumping through his human veins, as though his body were running on empty. She whimpered underneath him, fearful that, in his terror, he might mistake blonde hair for metallic pepper pot. The Doctor mumbled animatedly in the melodic tones that only he understood, using his nose to smooth errant strands of blonde hair fanned across her cheek and then pressing his temple to hers. On the edges of her consciousness, she felt a familiar presence, an essence that so characterised the Doctor, begging for entry. Possessing nothing other than intuition and faith of good will, she granted permission: her mind unexpectedly passed to the six-month-old memory of the Doctor running toward her in a lonely London street, overjoyed at their impossible reunion. She ran toward him, her hand outstretched. Just as their fingers touched, Rose's mind was swiftly overloaded with lifetimes-worth of terror, rage, despair, pain and revenge. As she began to sob in agony, a comforting blanket of joy, awe, pride, ecstasy and love enveloped her; she felt male fingers — hands — slide sensually up her arms and to her temples. Images of her nineteen-year-old self dressed in a beautiful evening gown accompanied by his ninth incarnation, of his tenth incarnation laying next to her on his coat in New New York, of another of her twirling in a bright pink poodle skirt and heels and of his current incarnation slipping his wandering hands up her pencil skirt whilst covering her exposed neck with tender, open-mouthed kisses in a halted lift played in her mind like a movie advert - theirs. Part truth, part fantasy — it was his. The Doctor's erratic breathing slowed to normal, his fingers never leaving her temples and his lips kissing her cheek and neck.  
  
"Oi! Get off her!" cried a British man's voice. Rose felt pairs of hands pull the Doctor's frame off her. As a struggling Doctor continued to shout at the police restraining him and occasionally reach for Rose, an angry Jake Simmonds pulled Rose to her feet. She turned to the six policemen who were wrestling with the raging Gallifreyan.  
  
"No!" yelled Rose. "Let him go!"  
  
They relinquished their grip on the man, though they still surrounded him. The Doctor blinked, his eyes still glassy and distant. Rose walked up to him carefully, as though he were a wild animal in captivity. "Doctor, it's Rose. You're safe now. Shhh…." she soothed. For a moment, cold fear passed through her like a breeze, replaced with warmth and comfort.  
  
He blinked again, recognition returning to his brown orbs. "Rose?"  
  
"Yeah, love, it's me," she whispered calmly.  
  
The Doctor looked around, his hands still shaking violently. "What happened? We were…?"  
  
Rose looked at the police, "C'est bon, merci." Though they were reluctant to leave a petite woman with such an unpredictable man, they acquiesced. Jake, however, crossed his arms in defiance. "Not a chance, Rose," he growled. After a moment, she nodded and approached the Doctor cautiously.  
  
"Doctor, you were somewhere else. You thought there were Daleks."  
  
"Daleks?!" he gasped. "But…there aren't any here."  
  
Rose shook her head. "No, Doctor. Then you…dragged us to the ground. I think you must've thought we were bein' attacked. You…"  
  
The Doctor closed the two-metre distance between himself and the blonde, his hand reaching toward her. Jake stepped protectively toward the half-alien and took out his stun gun, which he had slipped in the back of his waistband upon leaving the Tylers' flat. Rose put her right arm up to wave him off; the Doctor paused, considering the threat of the Northerner. "Don't," warned Rose.  
  
"I'm right here, Rose," said Jake, never taking his eyes off the lanky man in front of him. The man deliberated their positions for a moment and then continued toward Rose.  
  
"What did I do, Rose?" asked the Doctor in a small voice. "Tell me, please!"  
  
 _What should I tell him when I don't understand myself?_  thought Rose. "I don't know what happened exactly. You pulled us to the ground and then you…I think you touched me."  
  
The Doctor looked at her with a frightened, heartbroken gaze. "Touched you?" he murmured.  
  
Rose nodded slightly. "Yes. On my temples."  
  
His eyes widened in shock, revulsion and shame. He shut his eyes in pain and embarrassment and scrubbed his face with dirty hands. "Shit!" he hissed. Rose recoiled from him in surprise; even in his moody, brutal ninth incarnation, she could count on one hand how many times she had heard him use human profanity, though she suspected that his occasional rants in Gallifreyan had been far less than proper. Rose walked up to the hunched figure, her hand to stroke him comfortingly, when he leapt away from her, shouting "No!" She mouthed a silent question as to his behaviour and then approached him again. He backed away, shaking his head.  
  
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Rose." He swallowed. "I must go. I have to go."  
  
"Doctor, what's the — " Before she could finish her question, Doctor James Noble stalked past both Rose and Jake, who moved to her side, and out of the crime scene.  
  
"Rose, what the hell is going on?" demanded Jake, holstering his gun.  
  
The blonde agent held up her hand abruptly, her head lifting to the sky as if catching a prized scent. Four repeating taps every five seconds. "Survivor!" she cried, running away from Jake and toward the rubble. The Northerner followed in pursuit, his field of vision narrowing to only the blonde in front of him. She skidded to a stop facing a large pile of the embassy; walls, metal and fire obstructed them.  
  
 _Tap, tap, tap, tap._ Rose put her hand up to silence Jake and two police officers who had joined the operation.  
  
 _Tap, tap, tap, tap._ Four taps in rapid succession came from somewhere underneath the pile. "They're in there," breathed Rose, as she approached the tomb-like structure.  
  
"Madame, do not move! Let us get machines!" yelled one of the officers.  
  
Rose took off her blue leather jacket and covered her head. Jake and the officers shouted her name as she jumped through the largest flame and partially onto the pile, glass cutting into the skin of her hands and arms. Wincing, she quickly put her jacket back on and tapped on the pile — one, two, three, four.  
  
Four taps in response, from the top of the pile. Rose studied the summit and carefully moved the first beam roughly twelve centimetres. A man's bloody and bruised hand slid out of the opening, reaching for anyone. She immediately seized it, gripping it tightly. "Oi, I've got ya, yeah? I'm not lettin' go." Behind her, she heard men shouting to put the fire out and footfalls approaching her.  
  
"Goddamn bloody stubborn woman!" muttered Jake.  
  
"Yeah? File a report, Jake. This man needs our help," retorted Rose, never releasing the man's hand.  
  
"Madame, we're ready."  
  


***

  
  
Ten minutes later, the French police freed the man from his metal and glass death trap and rushed to Hôpital Necker. He was attractive for man in his late forties, tall like the Doctor, brown-haired with grey streaks, and Swedish. The rescue unit found several other bodies of office workers near his location on the top of the pile. None survived.  
  
Rachid escorted Rose and Jake back to the perimeter, where he insisted upon treating her injuries. She was wrapped in an emergency blanket, attempting not to wince as the Frenchman cleaned and bandaged the cuts. Jake stood akimbo, occasionally shaking his head. Goddamn Rose Tyler. "Who was the man in the pile?" he asked Rachid.  
  
"The man you saved, Agents, was Minister-Counsellor Karl Björnstjerna." They looked up to see Captain Diop covered in debris and blood. "He's the highest-ranking survivor of the bombing. The Ambassador and Minister are dead."  
  


* * *

  
  
John wiped his brow as he finished loading the black bag carrying the Ambassador's body onto the gurney. He decided to take a moment to breathe when a black box barely sticking out from the remnants of wooden desk and walls caught his eye. The hand-sized box, an old Vitexphone, was broken in half, though its purpose was nonetheless carefully preserved — it was an improvised explosive device. Looking around, he quickly and circumspectly picked it up with a piece of tissue and placed it in his coat pocket.


	17. Aftershocks

**Aftershocks**

 

The Doctor paid no attention to the ambulances or gendarmerie as he passed through the crime scene boundary and down the street. Sweat bathed his face like fresh rain, his breathing ragged and pain pierced through his heart. Olivier looked up to the man walking quickly down the street, passing by the hybrid.    
  
“Doctor, is that you?” called out Olivier.  
  
“Must leave, must run…” mumbled the tall man. Olivier jogged in front of him to stop, but the Doctor pushed him out of his away and continued down the street. Olivier grabbed him from behind, dragging him toward the car. The Doctor screamed like an animal, prying Olivier’s arms from his chest in a vain attempt to escape down the street. The Haitian tripped his legs, bringing him down to the pavement. “Ne bouge pas, Docteur !” he cried. He turned the Doctor over and watched as glassy eyes returned slowly to normal brown ones.    
  
“Please help me,” the Doctor moaned.    
  
Olivier shook his head in disbelief. “What’s with you, Doctor? Do you know where you are?”   
  
“Paris, December 5, 2013. Went to investigate an explosion,” he whispered.   
  
“2.13, you mean?” Olivier looked up at a paramedic approaching them. He signalled for the man to come. “Did you hit your head? Where are the others?” The paramedic kneeled next to the Doctor and began to stabilise his head in case of injury.  
  
The Doctor shook his head. “Rose…no….”  
  
Olivier froze, the man’s voice chilling him. “Did something happen to Rose? Is she okay?”  
  
“Monsieur, you need to let me work. His blood pressure and heart rate are dangerously high,” interjected the paramedic.   
  
Nodding, the Haitian stepped back, dissatisfied and discontent with his questioning cut short. The paramedic briefly shined a light in the Doctor’s faintly wild, glassy eyes, keeping his head in place. Though he seemed to have no physical impediment, the Doctor’s breathing was rapid and his muscles were extraordinarily tense. The paramedic listened to his heart and lungs with his stethoscope once more, before motioning to a group of men near the perimeter. Within seconds, they brought a gurney to the paramedic and surrounded the Doctor’s frame.    
  
“What’s wrong?” asked Olivier.  
  
“We need to get him to Necker in case there’s something I’ve missed. But this man needs special care. To your knowledge, is he military?”   
  
Olivier gave a Gallic shrug. “I just met him today. He’s a work associate. Why?”   
  
The paramedic turned to him and regarded the man squarely. “I’ve only seen this in military personnel or victims of the Cybermen. It is possible that there’s something physically wrong with him, but unlikely. He has stress from a trauma. That’s all I can tell you.”   
  
An ambulance pulled up next to the Doctor and the paramedic. He ordered his subordinates to lift the Doctor’s gurney carefully into the ambulance. Two of them climbed inside and shut the door. The lead paramedic banged on the side and yelled "Allez!" The driver turned on the siren and sped down the street toward the Hôpital Necker. Olivier swore under his breath and started toward the perimeter. Suddenly, he heard a buzzing from a Vitexphone. Olivier checked his pockets for his own phone, but found it inactive in his coat. He gazed down at the street pavement where the Doctor had been; a Vitexphone with a photo of an irritated redheaded woman and “Pick up, Paper Cut!” displayed on the view screen. He bent down, picked up the black smartphone and answered it. “Hello?”  
  
The same redheaded woman appeared live on the screen in blue pinstriped jimjams, white cat in tow, displaying a worried expression. “Oi! Who the hell are you? Why are you answering Doctor Noble’s phone?”  
  
Olivier peered down at the phone. “You first. Are you his wife?”  
  
Lightning bolts flashed in her blue eyes. “Hardly. I’m his personal assistant. Now, tell me who the hell you are or I’ll phone the police straightaway!”   
  
“I’m Olivier Jean-Baptiste, Madame. I work for Pete Tyler here in Paris.”   
  
Donna watched the Haitian suspiciously. “Eileen Temple. I work for James Noble. I’ll ask again: why are you answering his phone?”   
  
“Ms Temple, you should talk to his family. He’s been brought to the hospital Necker here in Paris. The doctors will know what is wrong with him there.” Olivier looked around quickly before whispering into the phone, “Is Doctor Noble ex-military?”   
  
“Not to my knowledge. Why?” gasped Donna. “Did something happen to him?”   
  
“The paramedic thought he was uh… stressed? No, that’s not the English word. Trauma?”   
  
“Post-traumatic stress?” offered Donna.    
  
“Yes, that’s it,” replied Olivier. He looked up; in the distance, Jake motioned for him to approach the perimeter. “Ms Temple, I must go. Please contact Dr Noble’s family and I’ll call later from the hospital. I’ll use this phone so you’ll recognise the number.”   
  
Donna nodded slowly, petting the cat to hide her distress. “Fine. Could you also find Rose Tyler? I’m sure he’d like to know where she is.”  
  
“Of course, Ms Temple. A plus tard,” replied Olivier, as he hung up the call. He tucked the phone into his other coat pocket and marched toward the perimeter. Jake waved him past the guard and Olivier followed him into the wreckage. Olivier covered his nose and mouth to filter the stench of death. “Ah, putain,” he muttered.    
  
“We need to find the Doctor and John,” began Jake. “Rose’s okay; she’s a bit cut up, but she’s with command.”   
  
Still with his dark brown leather jacket sleeve over his nose, Olivier managed to communicate, “Dr Noble’s in hospital, Jake.”   
  
The Northerner stopped in his tracks to face Olivier. “Which hospital?”   
  
“Hôpital Necker. They think it was post-trauma stress.”   
  
Jake stared hard at him, disbelieving. He rubbed a hand over his mouth and hair and exhaled in frustration. “Goddamn it. Given his history, we shouldn’t be surprised. We’ll need to tell Rose.”    
  
“Tell me what?” Olivier and Jake turned toward Rose and Captain Diop; the blonde’s hands were bandaged, blood slowly permeating the white gauze.    
  
“Rose, the Doctor’s in hospital.” Rose’s mouth shifted from a neutral expression to an oval of shock. She started to run toward the hybrid, wincing from the sting of her cut hands. Jake mumbled a ‘merci’ to Diop and both men ran after her, all slowing down at the sight of John O’Reilly waiting at the front right door of the car.    
  
“Did you find anything, John?” shouted Jake.    
  
John shook his head. “The ambassador’s dead, but that's it.” He walked over to Rose and examined her hands with concern and then glared at Jake and Olivier. “What happened? Where’s the Doctor?”   
  
“He’s in hospital,” said Rose, her voicing shaking. “We’ve gotta see him.”   
  
Jake ran to the rear seat, as Olivier unlocked the car and slid into the driver’s side. “Let’s go!”   
  


***

  
  
The Doctor’s gurney banged through the doors of Necker Hospital, located in the fifteenth arrondissement of Paris and a five-minute drive from the Swedish Embassy. In and out of consciousness, he could perceive yelling of medical personnel in French and occasionally English. His breathing seemed louder than normal…  
  
 _Rose…_  
  
Sometime later, he awoke to the smell of cleanser and pure oxygen. Groaning, he realised that he was in a bed at one of his least favourite places in the universe — the hospital. His blazer had been removed and he had an IV line in his arm. He shivered, his smooth skin turning to goose flesh; without the black velvet, the room felt five degrees cooler than it actually was.  _Bloody humany response._  A young, black-haired woman in her thirties wearing a white lab coat and clutching a notepad and pen walked into the desolate room. She checked his IV and vitals.    
  
“What happened?” he asked in French.   
  
“Bonsoir, you’re awake,” said the woman. “I’m Dr Giroux. You collapsed at the scene of the bombing. No external or internal injuries. Could you tell me what you remember?”   
  
The Doctor sat up slowly, which the physician was swift to discourage. “No, Sir, please do not sit up. Stay as you are.” She gently pushed him back down; the Doctor rolled his eyes in response.    
  
“I’m fine, really. Lack of sleep and fluids, I suppose.”   
  
“Sir…”  
  
“Doctor, actually. Doctor James Noble.” He flashed a flirty grin at the physician, hoping that his charm would coax her to discharge him —  _the sooner, the better!_  
  
Dr Giroux paused, choosing her words. “Dr Noble, I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that. I’ll need to ask you some questions.”   
  
He shrugged light-heartedly, “Fire away, though I really do need to leave. People are waiting for me and I hate hospitals.”   
  
Dr Giroux nodded, picking up the notepad and black pen. “Very well. What is your name, date of birth and birthplace?”   
  
“James Adric Wilfred Noble; born 5 July 1974 in Chiswick, London, Great Britain.”   
  
“Parents?”  
  
“Adric and Eileen Noble; both deceased.”   
  
The woman nodded again, jotting down his information. “Yet your French is perfect. What about your mother? Is she French?”   
  
“No. My nanny and tutors were French. I was educated privately, being gifted, me.”   
  
“Were you ever in military service?”  
  
James rolled his eyes. “Is this a questioning? With all of the injuries from the bombing, I’m sure you and your staff are overwhelmed. Surely a simple knock on the head shouldn’t merit an overreaction. An IV should right me soon enough.”  
  
Raising an eyebrow, Dr Giroux fixed her best ‘Doctor in charge’ glare. “Dr Noble,” she began sternly, “I’m not simply a medical doctor and I believe you know that. You collapsed at the scene of a horrific bombing — no injuries, nothing — yet you were incoherent and running away. An IV can fix many things, but not that, I’m afraid.”   
  
James Noble’s eyes darkened from brown to black. He crossed his arms over his white tee shirt and glared at the doctor. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”   
  
“Doctor, do you know what post-traumatic stress disorder is?”   
  
He froze, suddenly finding a piece of brown dust on the sanitised white floor fascinating. “It’s a stress disorder, acute or chronic, due to exposure from a traumatic event, usually involving combat, disaster or attack.”   
  
“Yes, good. Have you experienced any of those things?”   
  
The Doctor said nothing, merely pushing the piece of dirt with his Converse-covered foot. Faintly, however, Giroux detected that her patient’s breathing had increased into short pants.   
  
“I’ll take your physiological response as a yes. Dr Noble, I’m keeping you overnight for observation. Until your nervous system has calmed down sufficiently, I cannot risk you leaving the hospital. I’m also going to prescribe medication, an SSRI, for your anxiety. Do you have any allergies?”   
  
James’s hands gripped the bed. “I’m fine!” he yelped.    
  
Giroux crossed her arms, staring at him. “It’s either medication and rest or 72-hour sectioning at Sainte-Anne.”  
  
The Doctor looked at the woman in shock. If only he had the TARDIS, he could make a run for it and leave this shite planet forever. “Fine. I’m allergic to rosemary, aspirin, paroxetine and sertraline.”  
  
“Which means you can’t take the SSRIs normally prescribed for post-traumatic stress,” she concluded sceptically. “However, if you’re sensitive to two SSRIs, I’m not willing to play Russian roulette with your neurochemistry, especially in a short time. However, you are not allowed, under any circumstances, to leave the hospital without my consent. Rest now. One more question: do you have any family in Britain that I should notify?”   
  
A nurse walked into the room and approached them. “Excuse me, Doctor, but there are visitors here for Monsieur Noble.” Rose, John, Jake and Olivier filed into the room.    
  
“Yeah, they’re here, Doctor,” replied James.   
  
The Frenchwoman intercepted the group. “I’m Dr Giroux, his physician. We’re keeping him for overnight observation. His blood pressure and heart rate were extremely high for a man of his age and weight.” She turned to Rose, who was studying the Doctor with concern. “Are you family?”   
  
“Yes,” answered the Doctor from behind them. “And I’m right here, ta!”   
  
Giroux rolled her eyes. “You may stay, Miss…”  
  
“Tyler. Rose Tyler,” supplied the British blonde, never breaking eye contact with the Doctor.    
  
“Miss Tyler, of course.” Giroux looked up at the three men. “The rest of you will wait outside. I don’t want too many people in here right now.” She gestured to the door; Jake put his hand on the shoulder of a reluctant John O’Reilly, guiding him out of the hospital room. Olivier followed after them. Giroux turned back to Rose, who had moved to the Doctor’s bed, examining his body for external injuries. The Doctor’s hands traced her bandaged arms and hands like healing balm; he scowled at the blood stained gauze.    
  
The physician’s voice broke their silent, shared moment. “Miss Tyler, we should speak.”  
  
“Yes?” Rose asked, remaining at the Doctor’s bedside.    
  
Giroux regarded the pair for a moment. They were definitely not relatives, given the tender way James Noble touched and stroked her hands and the yearning and protectiveness reflected in Rose’s eyes. Close friends, but not lovers; they were close, intimate, without touching.   _The British are a strange, repressed people, thought the Parisienne._  “Doctor Noble has post-traumatic stress. He can’t take the normal prescription of SSRIs, so the chances of his anxiety returning are almost certain. I would assume that you’re law enforcement of some kind? That’s why you were at the bombing.”   
  
Rose nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”   
  
“He cannot be in the field right now.” Giroux watched the Doctor roll his eyes again in silent protest whilst Rose gave him a hard look.    
  
“Thank you, Doctor Giroux. May I have a few minutes with him?”   
  
“A few minutes. Then he must rest, Miss Tyler.” Dr Giroux glared at the Doctor in warning once more before taking leave of the pair.    
  
“Bloody bastards took my favourite blazer, Rose. Any chance it might be on the door hook?” the Doctor abruptly asked.    
  
She smiled silently — not quite a teeth-touched smile, the Doctor noted to his chagrin — and moved to the door. She pushed it toward him and chuckled as she removed the black velvet garment. “Apparently, the French don’t agree with your sense of fashion, Doctor. They hid it from view.” She handed it to an offended James Noble, who began ruffling through its pockets.    
  
“Oi! My sense of fashion has been emulated on several planets!” His annoyance became excited glee as he found his sonic screwdriver. “Ha!” he cried. “Now, let me see your hands and arms, Rose. For being search and rescue, they did a shite job of patching you up. Remove your leather coat, as well.”   
  
Rose winced as she slowly and painfully pulled down the zip. The Doctor gestured for her to hold out her arms, then removed the coat from her shoulders, back and arms with deliberate movements to avoid causing her more pain and ripping out the IV in his arm. She cried out, the fabric rubbing against her wounds. He pressed his lips to the top of her head. “I’m sorry,” he murmured as he finished. Setting his sonic to 156G, he shined a whirring blue light on the deepest cuts.    
  
“Don’t think we’ll avoid talking about what happened,” Rose gritted out.    
  
“Rose, just let me do this, please,” begged the Doctor. For the next few moments, they stared at her disappearing wounds in silence. Rose scrutinised his face; though his characteristic focus has returned, his eyes betrayed pain, rage, uncertainty and shame.    
  
 _Always getting into trouble, Rose Tyler._  
  
Rose glared at him. “Sorry if savin’ a man’s life is gettin’ into trouble!” The Doctor glanced up from his sonic aid in surprise, but offered no reply. “It was the Minister-Counsellor of the Swedish Embassy, Karl something or other. The Ambassador and the Minister were killed in the explosion. Some sort of detonation, though no one’s found the device yet.”   
  
The Doctor quietly considered her words. “How many dead?”   
  
“I don’t know. Maybe fifty?” replied Rose. “Doctor, don’t change the subject. What happened there?”   
  
He switched off the sonic. “There you are, good as new,” he said, unwrapping the soiled gauze. Upon seeing Rose’s impatient look, he took a deep breath. “I don’t know, Rose. I don’t remember much. I just remember being on the pavement and laying on a gurney inside the hospital.”   
  
“She’s right, you know. Doctor Giroux. You’ve got post-traumatic stress,” Rose whispered.    
  
The Doctor peered at her squarely. “Did you receive a medical degree in my absence, Rose Tyler? That woman knows nothing,” he snapped.    
  
“I’ve seen it in human patients at Torchwood, Doctor. Even half-human and Time Lord ones once upon a time in the TARDIS,” she replied evenly. “I was your companion, remember?”   
  
“Was,” growled the Doctor. “Always was, innit?” He focussed on her angrily, his posture erect and his eyes glowing. “So what must I do, Doctor Tyler?”   
  
“Stop bein’ a git,” said Rose in her best imitation of her mum. The Doctor recoiled, his posture softening. “Doctor, no one, least of all me, would ever fault you. You’ve obviously dealt with this for centuries, so what do we need to do? Does it have to do with my temples?”   
  
He froze as if she slapped him. “What?” he breathed.    
  
“My temples. When you were…in the thick of it, you touched my temples. That seemed to calm you down. Do you need that, Doctor?”   
  
The Doctor brusquely twisted away from her, shielding his face. “No! I just need…to meditate. I should be fine once I meditate for several hours.”   
  
Rose’s face fell. “Fine, Doctor. I’m sorry about upsettin’ you. I’ll let you get some rest.” As she stood up to leave, a hand grasped her wrist.    
  
“Please don’t leave me. Please! I’m the problem, not you,” gasped the Doctor in a small voice. He rolled over to face her, his free hand joining the other to lightly grip Rose’s petite appendage. Tentatively, she sat down next to him. The Doctor shifted his body away from her and laid down on the bed, creating space for a second, smaller person. Accepting his unspoken invitation, she put her head next to his, facing him. His left hand intertwined with her right and she sighed in contentment.    
  
“I’m just glad you’re alright,” she murmured.    
  
“Always, Rose Tyler,” the Doctor replied, closing his eyes. He knew that Rose would undoubtedly bring up the subject of his touch again. How could he explain to her what had transpired? He hated thinking about it; in the absence of the TARDIS’s zero room, he did what any Time Lord in the midst of a panic attack would do — telepathically called for help from a family member or spouse. Several civilisations named the Gallifreyans the People of the Mind due to their cultural and evolutionary cultivation of their mental faculties. Their scientific prowess and ability to see timelines were, of course, the most well known, but telepathic communication and bonding were essential to their course of being. The Doctor did nothing wrong from a Gallifreyan standpoint, but how would Rose, as a human, view that mental invasion? Now that she and John were  _together,_  he thought with a sneer, how would their relationship change?    
  
Desiring nothing more than to clear his mind of that inevitable heartbreak, his left hand felt around his bed. Rose’s head lifted off the pillow, her eyes searching. “What is it?”   
  
The Doctor smiled faintly. “Well, we don’t have beans on toast, but we’ve telly,” he said cheekily. She rolled her eyes, rose from her chair and went over to switch on the television set in the corner of the hospital room. She changed the channel past TF1 and TF2 to France 24 English. She returned to the chair next to the Doctor. A blonde-haired woman in an American accent began to speak from the newsroom:  
  
 _”The number of casualties at the Swedish Embassy continue to rise this evening. Though the Tunisian Embassy sustained minimal damage and no reported injuries, we have a report of over twenty people dead and up to fifty injured or missing. A group called Infinity is claiming responsibility for the attack. No information is known about Infinity. In a propaganda video reportedly sent to the Elysée and to the Chancellor’s Office in Stockholm, Infinity claimed that Sweden’s policy of granting open asylum to Iraqi refugees has provoked this act of violence.”_     
  
The Doctor and Rose exchanged shocked looks. Infinity?


	18. Infinity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some differences between Universe Prime and Pete's World are made explicit in this chapter. For those of you familiar with Paris, you might have been confused about Hôpital Necker, which is a paediatric hospital in our universe. Since World War I and possibly World War II did not occur as such in Pete's World, there are changes to Necker-Enfants Malades and the hôpital Georges Pompidou, which I've renamed Léon Blum, as the fifth republic in France did not happen. Thus, you may assume that France is still under the fourth republic.

**Infinity**

 

 _"We shall show them that by admitting the infinity of the fixed stars they become involved in inextricable labyrinths." — Johannes Kepler. De Stella nova, 1606._  
  
Founded by Suzanne Curchod, wife of financier and royal minister Jacques Necker, as a teaching hospital in 1778, the Hôpital Necker operated after the French Revolution partly as the Western World's first for paediatric care. Contrary to Universe Prime, however, the deaths of several European monarchs from the Royal Disease largely prevented World War I and the economic crisis that would follow. Thus, instead of becoming a hospital solely dedicated to ill children and transplants, the Hôpital Necker served both functions as an emergency care centre and a children's hospital. The bombing victims with relatively minor injuries were sent to Necker; patients in critical condition requiring intensive care were sent to Pitié-Salpêtrière in the thirteenth arrondissement or the hôpital Léon Blum in the fifteenth arrondissement.  
  
Jake, John and Olivier stood outside of the old iron gates of the hospital. Simmonds took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his jacket pocket. "Want a cig?" he asked the other men. Olivier nodded; John paused for a moment before accepting. It had been five months since he had last smoked.  
  
"I didn't know you smoked, John," said Jake in an amused voice.  
  
John dragged deeply on the Everest. "Every guy has a pack of Marlboros and three issues of Hustler in the field, Jake. Gets us through."  
  
The Briton hummed in response whilst puffing on the cigarette. Olivier checked his phone briefly; a worried text appeared from his wife and daughter, sent shortly after news of the bombing spread throughout the world press. He texted back in French, "Don't worry, love; I'm fine, will call later." John glanced over Olivier's shoulder. "Everything okay?" he asked.  
  
"Yeah, everything's good. My wife heard about the bomb," replied Olivier.  
  
"Is she in Paris?" inquired John.  
  
"No. She's not in France. Marina's Russian. She's in Moscow with our daughter visiting relatives. Honestly, I'm glad they're in Russia, not in Paris. One can only imagine who's out on the streets tonight." Olivier noticed the French 24 news app flashing, just as Jake's phone rang.  
  
"It's the Boss," announced Jake, answering the phone. Olivier opened the app to reveal France 24's coverage of the terrorist group known as Infinity — what little they knew.  
  
"Gentlemen," spoke the redheaded balding man on the phone. He carried a serious, neutral expression, though the news weighed heavily on him; his white Oxford was wrinkled and its collar unbuttoned without a tie. "I heard about the Paris bombing. Everyone well?"  
  
"Yes, sir," replied Jake. "John, Olivier and I are outside of Necker Hospital. Rose and the Doctor are inside. Rose's fine, but the Doctor has had a bit of a …problem." Jake stopped himself, unwilling to continue in front of John and Olivier.  
  
The man nodded. "And would, by chance, my daughter be receiving any medical care herself? And don't bullshit me this time, Jake!" said the Torchwood Director harshly, his blue eyes tearing through the screen.  
  
Jake paused and then answered, "No, sir. She did receive some bandaging at the scene. She has not been hospitalised."  
  
Director Tyler stared hard at the three men, before signing in acquiescence. "The Three Musketeers is now two; we don't need to loose a second man." Jake gulped back sadness at the reference to Mickey Smith. "What have you found? Is the bombing connected to the Pasteur's mysterious virus? And what's this about 'Infinity'?"  
  
Olivier tilted his phone to show Jake and John, who looked at each other in shock. "Apparently so, sir. Magnussen showed us a book written by Tycho Brahe and Johannes Kepler that contains references to infinity. It's written in Ojibwe, in which thankfully for us, John and the Doctor are completely fluent."  
  
Director Tyler furrowed his brow in confusion. "Ojibwe? That's an indigenous language from America, yes? How could seventeenth-century scientists have spoken it?"  
  
"That's what we can't figure out, sir," interjected John. "We were theorising when the bombing occurred at 2030 hours. We came to help and Agent Tyler saved the third in command at the Swedish Embassy. He's been brought here."  
  
"Very good, Agent O'Reilly. Anything else odd at the Pasteur? Evidence of ETs?" ET was a routine code word for extra-terrestrials. The less the public knew, the better, in Torchwood's opinion.  
  
"Not directly, no. We do have the Doctor's sonic readings, which implied that the strain was 14.8 billion years old, older than the known universe. But Magnussen seemed to know more than what he shared with Torchwood," replied Jake, taking a drag of his cigarette.  
  
"Indeed," the Director frowned in dismay, leaning back in his black swivel chair. "Then unfortunately, gentlemen, you are on borrowed time. Unless you can prove that the virus has ET origins, we will have no jurisdiction over the matter. No doubt the case will be handed over to Interpol and the National Police. Then it'll only be a matter of weeks before the French bollocks up any lead we may have had. I can stall for another 24 hours, given that Rose saved the Minister-Counsellor's life. But day after tomorrow, I want you back in London. Understood?"  
  
"Understood, Director. We have a meeting at the Pasteur tomorrow at 9.00 am, though I don't count on it bein' anything but bollocks."  
  
Director Tyler nodded. "Grand. Agent O'Reilly, Olivier, please excuse Jake and I for a moment."  
  
"We'll see you inside," replied John who, putting out his lit cigarette, followed Olivier inside the hospital. Jake turned toward the Vitexphone.  
  
"Jake, be candid. What's wrong with the Doctor?" asked the Director.  
  
"I'm not sure, Pete. He…I don't know, given that he's half-Time Lord, but if he were human, I'd call it PTSD."  
  
Pete winced. "I'm not surprised. Becoming human would inevitably change the man's responses to stress. The question is, Jake, he a danger to himself and others? Is he a danger to Rose?"  
  
Jake took another drag of his cigarette, not daring to reply. Being second in command was total shite, always divided loyalties, he thought.  
  
"Damn it, Jake, answer me!" growled Pete. "We cannot have him working for us if he's untreated. Did Rose's injuries have anything to do with his episode?"  
  
"Not directly, no. You know Rose — always rushin' in. If anything, he was trying to protect her."  
  
Pete's expression softened. "Protect her? How do you mean?"  
  
"He was on top of her, as if shielding her from something. I don't think he's a danger to her," answered Jake.  
  
"But you don't trust him with others," concluded Pete. "Thank you, Jake. Keep me apprised. I'll trust you'll make the right decision when it comes to his fitness on this mission."  
  
"Understood," said Jake. As he was about to end the call, Pete smiled faintly, "One last thing, Jake. No need for my wife to find about Rose, eh?" Jake signalled his complicity with a salute before pressing the end button.  
  


***

  
  
_Infinity?_  
  
The Doctor felt around his jacket pockets for his smartphone. He let out a faint curse in Gallifreyan; it must have been left at the crime scene when he…blacked out. Blacked out had a better ring to it than an anxiety attack.  
  
"Rose, I'll need your phone," his voice cracked. She pulled it out of her pocket and handed it to him. Using his sonic to enhance the phone's capabilities, the Doctor hacked the DGSE's, MI6's and the American NSA's private servers to gain access to top- secret data related to the Paris bombing.  
  
Alarmed, Rose looked up at him. "Doctor, we'll get caught hacking into their servers!"  
  
The Gallifreyan scoffed. "Nonsense! The sonic'll have them fooled into thinking that it's some polar bear in the Antarctic. We're perfectly safe from those twats." Rose raised an eyebrow at the more Donna-influenced language. The Doctor flashed her a manic grin. "Admit it — you love this." A teeth-touched smile broke out across the blonde's face. A moment later, the file "infinity mp4" appeared and opened on Rose's smartphone. Two men dressed in black military uniforms with Swedish flag patches on their left arm and armed with Kalashnikovs faced the camera. Their faces were covered with black ski masks and their eyes obscured by sunglasses. A white cloth was tied around their right biceps. The man on the left spoke in slightly accented English:  
  
 _"We are addressing the traitors that are the MPs of Sweden's Parliament. You have betrayed the indigenous Viking people of Europe for the last time. Cleaning up the mess that the British, Americans and French made in the Middle East does not concern the people of Scandinavia. Yet the Parliament insists on bringing in those people from lands whose language, culture, history so differ from ours. In a post-Cybermen world, where entire cultures have been annihilated and forgotten, Europe would ask Sweden to accept death by silent invasion? Meanwhile, those Frøæder bastards in France, eating their cheese and wine while wiping their collective ass with the white flag they earned in the Franco-Prussian War, have yet to see actual blood spilled on their own soil. Well, now they know. They're now in the labyrinth of disaster. Let this be a warning to Great Britain and America: we're coming for you next. After all, it's the most wonderful time of the year."_  
  
The video faded to black and stopped. Rose stared at the screen in shock and disgust whilst the Doctor chuckled and rolled his eyes, clapping mockingly. "Bravo, Magnussen! What a great show!"  
  
She frowned. "What do you mean? How's a bombing a 'great show'?"  
  
"The man on the video was our dear, butter cookie-eating friend Linus Magnussen. They're not Swedish; they're Danish. Granted, language's close and he tries to hide it with English, but he used the term 'frøæder,' which is Danish. And, Time Lord me, I recognised his voice."  
  
"We'll need a sample of his voice. Maybe you can record it with your sonic tomorrow?"  
  
"Rose, why bother with a recording? We need to stop him before he destroys Piccadilly Circus!" shouted the Doctor.  
  
The blonde stepped back from the agitated man in front of her. She gazed into his darkening eyes. "Doctor…"  
  
He closed the distance between them so that his nose barely touched hers. His breathing consisted of short pants and his arm snaked behind them, effectively trapping her body to his. He leant into Rose's ear, hot breath tickling the sensitive cartilage. "Why are you afraid of me? Rose Tyler's never afraid of her Doctor," the man whispered.  
  
Rose closed her eyes, breathing in deeply to control her fear at his sudden actions. "I don't know what you want from me, Doctor," she replied. "But I know this is my fault, why you're like this. There can't be a Time Lord-Human Metacrisis, can there?"  
  
The Doctor wrapped his arms tightly around her, momentarily forgetting the IV. "Don't," he said. "Please don't." He tucked her head under his chin, his fingers occasionally playing with blonde strands. "It's not your fault. Never you. I just…want you safe. You're all I have."  
  
"Noble, glad to see you're feeling better," interrupted an American voice. Startled, the Doctor dropped his arms and moved away from his embrace of Rose to discover an irritated John O'Reilly at the entrance to his hospital room. Rose went over to greet her lover and assuage any potential accusations of impropriety on their part.  
  
"John, we found something related to the case, about infinity," said Rose in a small, conciliatory voice. The Army Ranger stepped into the room and slid a firm hand on the small of Rose's back. He watched as a flicker of anger and jealousy crept into the Doctor's eyes. Ever so slightly, the Doctor took a step toward John and Rose, almost mimicking John's possessive movements.  
  
"Oh? What did you guys find?" asked John, never taking his eyes off the alien.  
  
"Magnussen orchestrated the bombing," interrupted the Doctor, glaring at him. "This infinity group is his creation."  
  
"How do you know it's him?" asked John.  
  
"We have a copy of the video sent to the Elysée Palace," replied Rose. "It's him."  
  
In the corridor outside of the Doctor's hospital room, Olivier's voice echoed closer to the room as though he were on the phone. "Yes, Madame, yes. He's here. I don't know if…Okay, okay." He knocked on the doorframe. "Sorry, Dr Noble. Eileen's on your phone; I picked it up from when the ambulance took you."  
  
Rose and the Doctor stared at him in shock. Eileen?! Olivier held the phone to the Doctor; the photo strangely displayed a grinning dark-skinned man with a small white cat. The Doctor smiled inwardly and accepted the call. "Ta," he replied, missing the heated glare coming from Rose.  
  
John guided a reluctant Rose out of the hospital room. "Let's give the Doc a little privacy, shall we?" he asked, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice.  
  
Once Olivier, Rose and John left, the Doctor spoke. "Eileen? Really? And who's the man with your cat?"  
  
On the other side of the line, a tired and irritated redhead wearing pinstriped jimjams and red-rimmed glasses glared at the phone. Rude little tit. "The man's my husband, ta. I saw on the Beeb that Paris got bombed. Then I called you and some French guy, Olivier, tells me you're in hospital."  
  
The Doctor pinched his nose. "I'm fine, really, Donna. It was all just a misunderstanding."  
  
"Oh, really?" hissed Donna. "How in the bloody hell is 'post-traumatic stress' a misunderstanding?"  
  
"Donna, don't!" growled James. "I'm on a rather important case, so now is not the time."  
  
Donna rolled her eyes. Time Twat. She paused; where did that come from? What did time have to do with anything? She inhaled deeply. "Fine, idiot. Is there anything I can do to assist you? I'm the best PA in Chiswick."  
  


***

  
  
Outside of the Doctor's hospital room, Rose silently fumed with hurt, rage and humiliation. Her eyes a bitter amber, she gazed motionlessly at the opposite wall whilst John held her left hand in his right. She was all he had, her arse. It didn't take him long to replace her with Eileen. Although she doubted that there was anything romantic between him and the mystery woman — at least presently — Rose knew that it would not be long before they set off for space unknown in the TARDIS. She glanced quickly at John, who watched her carefully. Closing her eyes, Rose sank into the embarrassment and shame that filled her lower extremities. The truth was that she loved them both. The chemistry between her and the Doctor had not dissipated over time, but had grown to an extent. Yet he was the Doctor; history proved again and again that he could never be faithful to her in the way she craved. John was not the Doctor, but he would never betray her. She tightened her grip of his hand and squeezed reassuringly. Rose could not let a nineteen-year-old's silly fantasies rule the emotions of the cool-headed adult agent, third in command at Torchwood.  
  
"Olivier, John, Rose!" called out Jake. "Rose, I spoke with your dad. He's giving us until the day after tomorrow to find out who's behind this before it gets turned over to the French."  
  
"Damn it!" swore Rose. "Right then, we should prepare for our meeting with Magnussen tomorrow. He's behind these attacks."  
  
"Says who? The Doctor?" sneered Jake. "Rose, the man's not in his right mind."  
  
"I'm perfectly sane. Now, allons-y! I've hacked into the Pasteur's server — Magnussen's staying at a hotel in the seventh arrondissement," interrupted the Doctor, who was standing in the doorway. He wore one sleeve of his black velvet jacket and clutched his arm with the other sleeve dangling. He had disconnected the IV and used the last clean bit of Rose's gauze to apply pressure on the bleeding puncture mark. Within seconds, Jake marched into the Doctor's personal space and pushed him back into the hospital room.  
  
"You're not going anywhere," growled Jake.  
  
"The hell I'm not!" yelled the Doctor.  
  
His temper getting the better of him, Jake shoved the Doctor back into his room and shut the door. "As head of this Torchwood away team, I'm relieving you of duty. You're now a civilian and under the care of Dr Giroux until she deems you well to travel. Then you're on medical leave until a Torchwood psychiatrist deems you fit."  
  
James Noble scoffed, running a hand through his unruly brown hair. "You're pulling rank on me? Listen, you gobshite, I've been on centuries worth of away missions, so I'd say my experience clearly overrules your silly human view of rank," he spat.  
  
Agent Jake Simmonds inched into the Doctor, his face centimetres from the alien's. "Oi! You listen, Doctor! You're half-human yourself, so bollocks your Time Lord superiority. You live on this planet, have decided to live a human life and theoretically, have pledged allegiance to Great Britain. More importantly, I had to pull a terrified Rose Tyler from under your bloody seventy-kilogramme frame because you weren't in your right mind! What happens if I'm not there and you've another episode, eh? That time, Rose might not be so lucky! Hell, some stupid arsehole in the Gendarmerie might decide to shoot you on sight."  
  
The Doctor shook with rage at Jake's words. "You bloody stupid ape! I'd never hurt Rose!" he hissed.  
  
The Northerner backed up to the door. "This isn't a debate. I've the responsibility to protect those in my charge. That also includes you. If what you say is true, Doctor, that you'd never hurt Rose, then you'd have to see the logic. You stay in your room until Dr Giroux clears you." Jake opened the door and exited the hospital room, leaving inside a stunned Doctor.  
  
As the group approached Jake to ask him what transpired, he raised his hand to dismiss their questioning. "He's done! We're going back to the flat!" roared the Northerner. His altercation with the Doctor put him in a horrid mood and in dire need of a cigarette. Jake knew would have to face Rose's wrath at placing the Doctor on medical leave, but after the incident at the bombing scene and the Doctor's generally erratic behaviour at the hospital, there was no alternative. On the Dimension Cannon Project, he lost several Torchwood operatives to death, mental illness and resignation; he was unwilling to risk one more person he loved.  
  


***

  
  
Jake had gone to bed, unwilling to talk about the argument at the hospital. John O'Reilly took residence in Rose Tyler's bed, his bare chest serving as a pillow for a pink chemise-clad blonde. Tired and in residual pain from her healed injuries, she had fallen asleep minutes before during a French film noir from the 1950s. He kissed her head and stroked the skin of her back. Reaching over for the smartphone that she had been not so surreptitiously checking for text messages, he scanned it for any news from Necker Hospital. There was nothing from the Doctor. Whatever Jake said to him must have silenced the little pencil dick, he concluded. Though he had genuine sympathy for him and his condition — PTSD was widespread among fellow veterans coming back from Iraq — he agreed with Jake that the Doctor should not be in the field. It was simply too dangerous to himself and others. Whilst neither Rose nor Jake would speak of the incident at the site, John suspected that the Doctor did something to Rose. The very thought enraged him and only solidified his desire to keep Rose away from him. From his experiences in Iraq and the Cyber Wars, men with PTSD could be extremely volatile; in fits of rage, they could harm or kill the most dear to them. A Time Lord would be infinitely worse.  
  
A loud chirping interrupted his reverie. Groaning, John reached over to the night table and picked up his Vitexphone. A text message from CAESARI76 displayed on his screen:  
  
 _"Opposing team has stolen home plate. Tied the score. No outs, bottom of eighth. We need a plan."_  
  
John frowned and texted back:  
  
 _"They can't hit for shit. Second baseman fucks up, drops ball. Patience."_  
  
A moment later, Caesari76 replied:  
  
 _"Score is imminent. Meet at pitcher's mound."_  
  
"Fuck," muttered the Ranger, gazing down at Rose. Carefully and reluctantly easing out of the blonde's embrace, he placed a kiss on her temple and recoiled, unexpectedly overcome with a strange wave of nausea. Shaking it off, he slid out of bed, leaving the woman to search in vain for her lover. He whispered in her ear, "I'll be back soon, sweetness. Just going for a run." She mumbled something in her sleep before regaining stillness. He quickly changed into a pair of dark running trousers, a brown 'Army' tee shirt, a black hoodie, his dark socks and a pair of trainers.  
  


***

  
  
Within twenty minutes, the Army Ranger ran past the Invalides, along the Seine to the Quai Voltaire across from the Tuileries and the Louvre. First light had started turning the night sky to a dark bluish-purple. He stopped, pretending to stretch his quads when a dark-suited, brown-haired man in a raincoat approached him. "Fine night for a run. Nice Parisian air, yes?" he asked in a mid-Atlantic American accent.  
  
John scrutinised the man before replying, "Yes, it's good for the lungs." The man walked along side of him. "Shall we descend to the riverfront? The running's even better down there."  
  
The Ranger bit out, "Sure." He followed the man down a staircase to a cobblestone path along the Seine and across from the Louvre.  
  
Making sure that they were alone, the man turned to the ex-soldier. "Do you have the merchandise?"  
  
The FBI agent grimaced, reached into his hoodie pocket and tossed him the IED. The man pocketed the device. "We have a problem. The NSA was breeched by the people you were supposed to watch. If you're too busy burying your cock in Limey Blondie ass, we can always send someone else."  
  
"What the hell are you talking about?" John snarled. "And when the fuck does the FBI give two shits about the NSA? No love lost there, last time I checked!"  
  
The man raised his eyebrow. "Really? An Army Ranger and you didn't know? Man, I've got to look into London — the women must be amazing. At approximately 0030 hours Paris time, our security teams reported unauthorised access to secure servers. We tracked the intrusion back to a phone registered to one Rose Marion Tyler."  
  
"Clowndick," breathed John.  
  
The man in the raincoat snorted. "I wouldn't guess that Agent Tyler would be stupid enough to use her own phone. So, who the fuck was it?"  
  
"The Doctor," replied John.  
  
"Doctor? Doctor who?"  
  
Agent O'Reilly snorted. "Some D and D asshole who thought it'd be fun to break into the NSA mainframe to see a certain video of a terrorist organisation responsible for last night's bombing. He's an arrogant, weeping dick. Trust me, he's useless."  
  
"What's his name, Agent O'Reilly?" At the Cowboy's silence, the man stated calmly, "Maybe we should charge Ms Tyler. I'm sure your father will enjoy knowing that his son's paramour is a British spy."  
  
John bit the inside of his cheek in anger. "You leave my father and Agent Tyler out of this."  
  
"Then do your duty and give me this Doctor's name."  
  
John exhaled sharply. "His name's James Noble. He's a scientific consultant for Torchwood. Supposedly a genius, but really, he's just a stupid prick from Oxbridge."  
  
The man smiled, slapping a hand on John's back. "See? That wasn't so hard. Did he see the video?"  
  
"Yes, he did."  
  
"Anyone else? Obviously, Agent Tyler did — it's her phone."  
  
"No, she didn't," snapped John. "She was with the driver and Agent Simmonds, outside of the hospital room. He took her phone because he lost his when he was admitted."  
  
"Then who saw it?"  
  
John smirked. "I did."  
  
The man rolled his eyes. "You wouldn't be feeding me another line of shit, John? Believe it or not, we are getting wise to your rather imaginative reports."  
  
John laughed, crossing his arms. "Well, even if I were, you couldn't prove it either way. Besides, there's always the fucking question as to why a terrorist video on a case we're working has been deemed classified."  
  
"That's why God invented top-secret, John," said the man with a smug grin.  
  
The sandy-haired man shrugged. "Well, this has been fascinating, but my girlfriend is going to wake up soon and we have a terrorist asshole to catch. I'm going to finish my run home, if you don't mind."  
  
As John began to climb the staircase, the man called up to him. "I wouldn't be — how do the British say it — too cheeky about this, John. Your people have already broken into the NSA. How long do you think before Pete Tyler and his pretty piece of ass daughter become international people of interest?" John stopped midway up the staircase. He turned and looked coldly at the man. "Oh, yes, John," he continued, "You know damn well what we do with enemies of the United States."  
  
John descended the staircase in two seconds and grabbed the man by the lapels. "If you ever touch Rose Tyler, I will end your fucking life." He pushed the man into the Seine. "Enjoy the swim, asshole," he grunted as he walked toward the staircase.


	19. Meet Me in the City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: the procureur in the French justice system is roughly equivalent to the Crown or prosecutor in the British and American systems.

**Meet Me in the City**

 

The Doctor paced agitatedly in his sterile hospital room.  _Who the hell did that ape think he is?_  
  
I reckon the Sheep-Shagger talked them into leaving me behind!   
  
But he was the Doctor and he did have his sonic screwdriver, which was the best tool in the universe for escape. As he had predicted, due to the bombing, there hadn't been a nurse or a physician to check his IV or vitals for hours. Removing his admittance bracelet and arranging his pillows on his bed to mimic a sleeping human body, the Doctor covered them with the wool blanket and minimised lighting in the room. Peering out of his room, he put on his spectacles and slowly closed the door behind him, leaving it open a crack to avoid immediate suspicion; he slid his jacket on both arms and calmly walked down the hospital hall and out of the hospital. Pulling out his phone, he pressed the app for a taxi. A black car arrived approximately five minutes later; the Doctor opened the rear door and climbed into the cab.  
  
"Bonjour. Where to?" asked the driver.  
  
Shutting the door, the half-Gallifreyan stared darkly ahead into the night. "Bonjour," he replied, "Hôtel d'Orsay."  
  


***

  
  
The Doctor used his sonic to unlock the outside door and strolled purposefully into the four-star hotel's lobby toward the lift. "Bonjour," he greeted the night concierge in perfect French so as not to arouse suspicion. The man replied in kind before turning back to his work. Entering the lift, he pressed the button for the top floor and main suites. For a humble academic at the University of Copenhagen, he certainly lives in luxury, he thought. A moment later, the lift doors opened to the top floor. Rounding the corner for room 420, the Doctor knocked on the door. "Room service!" he said in French. No response. He pulled out the sonic and opened the door. The spacious suite was dark and cool, as though no one had been inside for days.  
  
Turning on one of the lights, he called out, "Magnussen?" As he entered the main bedroom, he saw the unmoving bloody corpse of the Dane. "Shit!" he cried, rushing to the dead man's side. Dried blood from haemorrhaging soaked the ivory carpet. The Doctor scanned the man's body with his sonic and examined the body. "What?" he exclaimed. "Rigor mortis? But that's…Really, I should stop saying that." He stood up and looked around, yanking his hair wildly. "Bah! Clues, clues, where are the clues?" Looking at the blood on the floor, he exhaled, "Oh, no…"  
  


***

  
  
Inside her en-suite, an exhausted Rose changed into her favourite pink chemise and combed her blonde hair into loose curls. John was waiting in bed, shirt off and clad only in navy pants, watching some old French film noir. She set the comb down and checked her smartphone. Nothing from the Doctor; now that he had Eileen doing his bidding, Rose Tyler was merely an afterthought, she sneered inwardly. As she set the phone to vibrate and was about to go to bed, the phone came to life with an echoing buzz. A picture of James Noble flashed on the screen.  
  
Rose let it buzz for a moment.  _Should she answer? Maybe she ought make him handle it on his own._  Exasperated, she answered with a curt, "Doctor."  
  
"Rose, the Butter-cookie is dead," the Doctor hissed into the phone. "I found him in his hotel. Rigor mortis has set in and I scanned him with the sonic. He's been dead for close to thirty-six hours."  
  
"What?" Rose whispered. "Wait — first of all, why aren't you in hospital? How did you find Magnussen?"  
  
"I told you! I found his address via the Pasteur. I'm fine, Rose. Why can't you trust me?"  
  
"So you walked out, without tellin' anyone, except maybe Eileen, and now you're trapped in a man's hotel room, with said man's corpse?" asked Rose acerbically. "You're in a right mess."  
  
"Well, I was trying to solve this case! As for Eileen, thanks to her, we have Magnussen's address and…his dead body."  
  
"So why aren't you callin' her?" growled Rose. She closed her eyes and immediately regretted her remark. "Wait — I'm sorry, Doctor. I'm glad you called."  
  
"Rose, I need you. I'm an escaped patient of suspected post-traumatic stress who, having entered into another man's four-star hotel room under unique circumstances, hasfound his dead body. If they find me here, they'll charge me with murder," gasped the Doctor.  
  
"Agreed. So can you wait until morning to leave the hotel?"  
  
"No. If Giroux finds me out of hospital, she'll certainly section me at Sainte-Anne."  
  
Rose pinched the bridge of her nose. "Well, Doctor, in terms of your all-time cock ups, this is on par with twelve hours. Wait there until I can leave without John or Jake knowing."  
  
The Doctor closed his eyes. "Fine," he bit out, "I'll see you soon. It's the Hôtel d'Orsay. The door code is 9067, room 420."  
  


***

  
  
Soon after John left their bed for his occasional night run, Rose dashed into the en-suite and changed into a little black dress, matching hose and high-heeled boots, silver scarf and matching handbag. She put on a charcoal grey coat. Primping her curled hair and applying a modicum of make-up, she slipped quietly out of the Paris flat and hailed a taxicab. To avoid suspicion, she asked the driver to let her out at a nightclub just north of the Hôtel d'Orsay. Ten minutes later, she typed in the access code on the main entrance and proceeded to the lift. The concierge motioned toward her.  
  
"Excusez-moi, madame, but are you a guest of this hotel?"  
  
Shit! Rose turned to face him and pulled out her psychic paper. "Yes, I'm staying in room 420."  
  
The concierge looked at the psychic paper. "Ah, yes, Madame Magnussen, your husband checked in two nights ago. But he didn't let us know you were coming."  
  
She smiled. "I was caught up at work in Copenhagen, so it ended up bein' a surprise and my zeppelin was late. Sorry for any trouble."  
  
He shrugged. "No trouble at all, Madame. Bonne nuit."  
  
Rose nodded, taking her leave. "Merci. Bonne nuit." She entered the lift and pressed the button for the fourth floor. A moment later, Rose arrived at room 420 and knocked. The door abruptly opened and a man's hand pulled her through and shut it. The blonde was faced with the Doctor and his sonic. He took a step back and ogled her black dress, high-heeled boots and the creamy glimpse of soft skin.  
  
"John went out for his midnight run and I … dressed like this so that the cabbie would think I was goin' to a club. Avoidin' suspicion."  
  
The mention of the Sheep-Shagger's name brought him out of the beginnings of an intensely lewd fantasy and into overflowing feelings of fear, rejection and abandonment. She left him to bed the Sheep-shagger. "Thank you for coming, Agent Tyler," he said formally. Coughing to regain his composure, he continued, guiding her to the Dane's corpse, "Magnussen's been dead for approximately thirty hours — he's cold and stiff to touch. The sonic's confirmed that."  
  
Carefully hiding her own turbulent emotions behind her Torchwood persona, Agent Tyler studied the body and replied, "But Doctor, that's impossible. We saw Dr Magnussen not even eighteen hours ago. And…Doctor, the virus that infected those two men at the Pasteur killed him. We've got to quarantine the Pasteur and the hotel."  
  
"But there's sign of the virus," said the Doctor, his eyes alight with curiosity and trepidation. "I've scanned it with the sonic six times and I end up with the same result. It's like," he stared out into space, gesturing with the hand carrying the sonic, "it decides when to kill its victims."  
  
"Like it's alive," finished Rose.  
  
"Yeah," concluded the Doctor quietly.  
  
"So, are we infected?"  
  
The Doctor blinked, then began to scan himself with the sonic. A moment later, he read the results. "No, no trace of the virus. Plus, given that I'm part-Time Lord, I'd be likely immune to a virus of that sort."  
  
Rose frowned. "But you're not certain," she said in a tone reminiscent of her father's.  
  
"No, I can't be absolutely certain. Now let's scan you." Stepping forward so that he was centimetres from her chest, he pointed the sonic at her; she felt nothing, but heard a faint buzzing for two seconds. He held up the tool and studied the conclusions. "Nothing; you're safe. There's no trace of the virus anywhere here, except for Magnussen."  
  
Rose let out the breath she had been unconsciously holding. "Right, good. Now, about the body? If they find you here, we'll never get access to evidence. Even if the National Police don't accuse you of the offence, you'll certainly be cautioned and sectioned." Rose circled the body, lost in thought.  
  
"Rose," the Doctor began, but was interrupted by Rose's right hand.  
  
"Doctor, go back to the hospital; wait for my call or for Jake. Go now."  
  
James looked up at Rose's stern expression. "You can't be serious?!"  
  
"We have Magnussen's body. Someone killed him and more than likely, with an unusual virus such as this, a bombing and possible terrorism, people and evidence will disappear. Someone has to bear witness and it can't be you. Now, go! Get back to the hospital." Rose punctuated her command with an icy authoritarian stare.  
  
The half-alien's eyes hardened in realisation and guilt; Rose's brilliant mind provided the best solution. He quickly went to the door; as he was about to open it, the Doctor whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll think of something." She nodded once and he was gone. The Torchwood agent pulled out her smartphone and dialled 17. "Allo? Oui…."  
  


***

  
  
An ominous shadow of purple and orange spread over the six o'clock Parisian morning skies. John O'Reilly returned to the flat, sweaty and anxious from his meeting with the man in the dark raincoat. He had taken an extra thirty minutes to run off his excess rage and frustration over the uncontainable SNAFU that Doctor James Noble had managed to create in just under twenty-four hours. Removing his hoodie and tee shirt, dropping them on Rose's bedroom floor, he climbed into the bed, smiling seductively, ready to entice her to an impromptu shower before their meeting at the Pasteur later in the morning.  
  
It was empty.  
  
Frantic, John tossed the sheets and pillows, murmuring Rose's name. He dashed out into the rotunda and the kitchen, flicking on the lights. "Rose?" he cried.  _The NSA couldn't have acted that fast!_  Jake's door opened and a sleepy Northern blond exited.  
  
"What the fuck, mate?" he gripped, irritated to have only slept three hours.  
  
"It's Rose. She's not here," shouted John.  
  
Fully awake upon John's news, Jake ran a hand through his hair. "Goddamnit! Did she go to the hospital?"  
  
"I don't know. I doubt they'd notice a pretty British blonde in the midst of last night's shitstorm," concluded John. "She didn't get any texts from Noble."  
  
"That we know of," Jake angrily replied. "Let's shower and go to Necker. I'm sure the Doctor has an explanation."  
  


***

  
  
Twenty minutes later, Jake and John left the flat, having dressed for their supposed meeting at the Pasteur. Jake wore his black fatigues and leather whilst John, instead of his neatly pressed suit and tie, threw on a charcoal grey suit coat and trousers and a white tee shirt underneath them. His service weapon, a Smith and Wesson, was tucked carefully into the back of his trousers. Unable to wait for Olivier, Jake motioned for John to enter the hybrid's passenger door as he unlocked the car. They slammed the doors shut and Jake started the engine.  
  
Moments later, as Jake turned onto the Avenue de Suffren, his phone rang. "John, answer it, will ya, mate?" He handed the phone to John, who looked at the screen.  
  
"It's Clowndick," he said, pressing the telephone key. "Hello, Clowndick. Where the fuck is Rose?" he yelled. Jake's eyes glanced to John expectantly, who seemed to become increasingly agitated. "What?! What do you mean arrested? And how the fuck are YOU out of police custody?" Jake shook his head. A man's voice talked animatedly in John's ear; the Northerner could make out "body," "Rose," "stayed at the hotel." John curled his lips in disgust. "Yeah, okay. We're coming to get you. Just keep your sorry ass on that hospital cot. Don't even go take a shit." He jammed the red phone button to terminate the call.  
  
"So, where's Rose?" asked Jake.  
  
The Army Ranger faced Jake and took a calming breath. "Inspector Clouseau decided to 'investigate' Magnussen and dragged Rose into his mess. He left the hospital early this morning to confront him at the Hôtel d'Orsay. He found Magnussen's body and called Rose. Must have done it while I was out running. They'd charge him with murder 'cause he's an escaped mental patient, so Rose stayed with the body."  
  
Jake swerved left to avoid missing the turn to the hospital. "So the French arrested her?"  
  
"Presumably."  
  
"Fuckin' hell. That sodding prig."  
  
Another call came through on Jake's Vitexphone as he was pulling into the car park. "Hello?" answered John. "Yes. Yes, Captain Diop, it's Agent John O'Reilly. Yes, ma'am, we're on our way."  
  
Jake rolled his eyes. "Bugger me, now what?"  
  
John smiled a little. "Well, our girl just got lucky. She was arrested, but Captain Diop vouched for her. She's to be released into our custody after questioning."  
  


***

  
  
A tired-looking Doctor James Noble accompanied the two agents into the seventh arrondissement precinct, where Rose Tyler was seated in an interview room with a member of the Police Nationale. Captain Diop approached them. "Agent Simmonds, I hope Torchwood doesn't intend on interfering with all of the Police Nationale's investigations," she said icily.  
  
"No, Captain. We apologise for the offence." Glancing irritably at Noble, he added, "It won't happen again."  
  
She nodded curtly. "Once my colleague has finished his questioning, Agent Tyler is free to leave Paris. There is, however, some curiosity on our part as to why Magnussen was a Torchwood operative? He's an non-descript academic from Copenhagen."  
  
The three men tried to contain their pride.  _Brilliant Rose!_  "He was on our payroll for a case we were investigating here in Paris. We met him at the Pasteur and he contacted Agent Tyler last night to share information. Since it's our case, Captain, we request to autopsy the body, as we believe he was murdered," explained Jake.  
  
Diop raised an eyebrow. "Give us proof that he was an informant and the Morgue will release the body to London, per our treaty with Great Britain." She extended an arm gesturing to the questioning room. "Agents."  
  
"Merci," answered Jake, as they entered the room. The lieutenant signalled that he finished his interview, leaving the men with Agent Tyler, who was sitting calmly in a plastic chair. John's eyes raked over Rose's outfit, stifling a combination of arousal and jealousy.  _Did she dress up for Clowndick? Did he fuck her before leaving the scene?_  
  
Jake glared at Rose, crossing his arms whilst the normally imposing form of the Doctor seemed small and slouched against the grey wall opposite Rose. Eyes averted, he tucked his head against his chest and remained silent. John walked over to Rose, inspecting her for injuries, then took hold of her upper arm and hauled her out of the chair. She yanked her arm out of his grasp, which enraged him even further.  
  
"Rose, fill us in on the way back to the flat," interrupted Jake, guiding her away from John and out of the interview room. The two other men followed. "Is the procureur involved?" he asked softly.  
  
"I've been cautioned, but no charges shall be filed, provided that I leave France without incident. Tonight," she replied. "The coroner agreed that I couldn't have murdered Magnussen. Roughly thirty-six hours and haemorrhaging as circumstance of death have effectively ruled me out as a suspect. Not to mention that I saved the chargé d'affaires for the Swedish Embassy."  
  
"Thirty-six hours? But we met with him yesterday morning," interjected John, barely containing his hostility. "And he had the virus?"  
  
"Yeah," said Rose. "I don't understand it, either." She tried to take John's hand, but he slapped it away, the anger radiating off him in waves.  
  
"What did you find, Doctor?" asked Jake. "I assume you scanned the body with your sonic?"  
  
The Doctor coughed, clearing his throat. "Of course. As Rose said, we literally saw the man twenty-one hours ago. He had no visible sign of any pathogen."  
  
"You didn't tell them about the virus, did you, Rose?" inquired Jake.  
  
She shook her head, exiting the automatic doors for the seventh arrondissement precinct and proceeding to the hybrid. "No. They think it's a poison of some sort. Had I told them about the alien virus, they would have quarantined me indefinitely."  
  
"And are you safe?" growled John. "Is this thing an airborne vector? Is Paris safe?"  
  
"No, she's perfectly fine," interrupted the soft voice of the Doctor. "I checked her results ten times whilst in hospital to make certain. She's not been infected."  
  
Jake checked his smartphone clock; it was nearly half-eight. He dialled the Institut Pasteur. "Yes, this is Agent Jake Simmonds with Torchwood. I'm calling to confirm a meeting with Dr Magnussen and Dr Gourdin this morning at nine. Sorry? Yes, we have a meeting with Dr…? No, I think you've made a mistake. Again, my name's Simmonds…Well, thank you and goodbye then." Jake hung up the phone. "This is one buggered case. I just called Pasteur. They've never heard of Magnussen, Gourdin or Torchwood."  
  
"What? How can that be?" uttered Rose. "We were just there!"  
  
"I've just come up with the most fantastic theory." All looked at the Doctor, whose body shook with frenetic energy. Rose, John and Jake gaped at him, wordlessly willing him to continue. The skinny man tugged on his ear. "Rose, remember all those nights we'd watch reruns of the X-Files? It's too bad that the show doesn't exist in this universe. Well, this particular version, anyway. Remember the first film? The government bombs the federal building in Dallas, Texas to hide bodies infected with an alien virus. Everyone's paying attention to the bombing, thinking that it's domestic terrorism, rather than what was actually hidden there."  
  
"Shit," breathed Rose. "They hid and killed the patients from Pasteur in the Embassy?"  
  
"That's twisted," said the Doctor. "But wizard enough to be true."  
  
Jake immediately selected Torchwood's number and pressed the green telephone. "Yeah, Owen, it's Jake. I need an informant's file for Linus Magnussen sent to the Paris Morgue. No, it doesn't exist — of course not. Well, do you want a sodding corpse to disappear? Now, Owen!" He hung up, swearing under his breath. "Let's go wait for the bloody Morgue. We need to get Magnussen's body before these cleaners do."  
  


***

  
  
After a tense ride back to the flat, Jake and Rose disappeared into their rooms whilst John went outside to smoke and the Doctor sat in his spot in the rotunda. Though his clothes were rumpled and dirty and he was in dire need of a shower, the Doctor made no attempt to move. A familiar chill entered his bones — the chill of guilt and self-blame. Thanks to his desire to solve the case, Rose was nearly arrested and charged with a crime she did not commit. Per his request, she left the safety of her best mate's protection and her lover's bed to follow him into a dangerous situation that exposed her to an unknown agent.  _Whose lives didn't he screw up?_  he thought bitterly. He ignored Martha Jones, his unfortunate companion after the loss of Rose, and sentenced his best mate, the other Donna Noble, the most important woman in the universe, to a slow death of banality and unsatisfied dreams. Then there was the matter of the Daleks; he gave no second chances and committed genocide without a second thought. He still felt absolutely no remorse for his actions on the Crucible.  _The Time Lord Victorious._  
  
The Doctor slowly went to the portrait mirror on the curved wall above the couch. A haggard, dark-eyed reflection of a shattered soul stared back at him —  _the Mirror and the Other._  
  
Doctor James Noble so loved Rose Tyler with his being; it was as natural to him as breathing. Yet this case in Paris proved that he was unworthy of her. His heart thudded against his chest as a reminder of his pain and essence of being.  
  
He was a killer. He was the Killer of his own kind.  
  
The walls suddenly closed in on him, a red-gold claustrophobia that had stalked him for centuries. Heaving short, painful breaths, the Doctor managed to rise to his feet and run out the flat door, down the staircase and out the main entrance. He walked a few metres when he realised he had forgotten his keys, but thankfully, not his Vitexphone. As he moved quickly down the street toward Iéna, his emotional distress obscured the sound of footfalls approaching him from the rear. A strong pair of hands grabbed him, pulled him into an adjacent passage and threw him against the white, red and brown building. Gasping, James Noble gazed into the angry blue eyes of John O'Reilly. The smell of stale cigarette smoke poured into his nostrils and made the half-Gallifreyan gag.  
  
"Hello, Clowndick. I told you we weren't through," sneered the Ranger.  
  
"Sheep-shagger," greeted the Doctor in kind. "A passage in Paris? But we're barely acquainted."  
  
John smiled darkly and punched the Doctor in the solar plexus, leaving him to slide breathlessly to the ground.  
  
James grinned manically, gripping his midsection. "You're a cheap date. No kiss?"  
  
John grabbed the half-alien by his jacket lapels and hauled him against the building. "You almost cost us a fine agent today, you piece of shit. My girlfriend, your companion or whatever you call 'em. For some fucking reason, you mean something to her. So I'll make this easy on you." Gripping the Doctor with his right hand, he reached into his inside suit pocket with his left and took out a black billfold. "Here's 200 Euros. Buy yourself a train ticket, Zeppelin ticket, but more importantly a one-way ticket out of Paris by this afternoon. Then stay the fuck away from her. Believe me, she'll be over you in a few months."  
  
The Doctor glowered at the Ranger. "And if I don't?"  
  
John smirked, released the skinny man and, with his right hand, whipped out his Smith and Wesson, pressing the barrel to the Doctor's head. He unclicked the safety. "I'd take the 200 Euros, Noble." Ignoring the oncoming storm in the Doctor's dark eyes, Cowboy shoved him against the building, threw the money at him - gun still in hand - and walked down the passage toward the Tylers' flat.


	20. The Nothing Man

**The Nothing Man**

 

 

 _"Darlin' give me your kiss  
  
Come and take my hand  
  
I am the nothing man."_  
  
-"The Nothing Man," Bruce Springsteen, 2002  
  
James Noble slid against the building wall, clutching his torso. He closed his eyes and breathed raggedly. Cowboy's words echoed loudly in his head:  _"You almost cost us a fine agent today, you piece of shit."_  Rose. He moaned in mental and physical pain as he fell to a sitting position in the filthy spit-ridden Paris passage walkway. He was a piece of shit.  _The Man Who Makes People Better_  almost cost Rose Tyler the two things that gave her the strength to carry on after their separation: her job and Pete Tyler's confidence. Though it had been inevitable that she would be released from police custody, the Doctor had miscalculated. The game he enjoyed playing only involved one, maybe two people, not a group of humans trained in special ops where watching each other's back was a necessity. The Doctor never had to follow such a rule, but the man behind the Doctor did many centuries ago at the front lines of the Battle of Arcadia. He looked down at his legs and the space between, where four, fifty-Euro bank notes landed after the American had thrown them at him in pure disgust. James picked them up gently, the paper crackling in his hand.  
  
 _How many more will pay the price in my name?_  The Doctor sent Rose to the parallel world so that she would be forever safe and happy with her family. Ever since his arrival, however, her friends have started to question her motives and her lover turned angry and hurt at her apparent emotional infidelity. The Doctor James Noble needed Rose Tyler, but Rose Tyler did not need him. The Other miscalculated — they both did. Nodding to himself, he folded the notes and put them in his trouser pocket. Checking that he still had his sonic screwdriver, he marched like a dutiful widower in the bright Parisian late-morning sunlight back to the Tylers' flat.  
  


***

  
  
John O'Reilly growled, slamming the main door shut. He marched through the rotunda and down the corridor toward Rose's room. The former sergeant threw her door open, revealing a startled blonde clutching her stomach, still in the black dress from the previous night, though missing her boots, scarf and coat. The Ranger glanced at her ensemble; his face remained expressionless even as his blue eyes were like flame. Crossing the room in five paces, the American grabbed Rose and pressed his lips to hers. Rose whimpered in response, pushing him away with her flat palm.  
  
"John, what — ?" she began, but John threaded his fingers in her hair, bringing her to him again.  
  
"Don't! Just fuckin' don't," he hissed, leading her to the wall behind them and placing against it, leaning down to capture her lips again. John pushed the door closed with his left hand and then brought it up her left leg and to the hem. He bunched it unceremoniously at her waist and trailed a series of wet kisses behind her ear and down her neck.  
  


***

  
  
The flat door unlocked and opened for the Doctor thanks to his sonic screwdriver. He managed to shut the door and walk through the rotunda before he heard it — them. To a human's ears, the flat seemed empty and perfectly silent. Yet to his part-Time Lord ears, the Doctor perceived Jake's fingers striking the keys of his laptop, writing a report to Torchwood detailing their activities and officially reprimanding him for unsafe conduct, and Rose's sighs whilst John kissed her against her bedroom wall. For the first time in centuries, the Doctor bit through his tongue, his eyes clouding over, flashing a warning of an imminent ice storm. He wanted to scream, march into her bedroom and rip the Cowboy-ape apart for breathing his polluted, cigarette-infested human air on his Rose. Something inside his mind chose that moment to taunt him; suddenly, he felt his nerves and mind come alive with sexual energy and desire.  
  
It tortured him not to be with her.  
  
Like a wounded animal, he whimpered and staggered into his room, tears filling his eyes. He quickly threw his effects into the small overnight bag, leaving the set of keys to the flat on the bed. Taking his sonic screwdriver, he scanned a copy of Kepler's letter and Tycho's book on a USB drive and left it next to his keys. He exited the room and went to Rose's closed door. James knelt before the door and placed a tender, tear-filled kiss on the white-painted wood. "Be happy, love," he murmured in Gallifreyan. Stroking the white barrier one last time, he rose to his feet and reluctantly walked away, dropping his Torchwood badge on the rotunda sofa. Heartbroken and filled with self-loathing, he departed the flat, too despondent to pay attention to the stairs as he slipped more than once. He was too overwhelmed to hear the old woman neighbour call after him. He was too uncaring to look over his shoulder. A black-gloved hand carrying a red cotton cloth covered his mouth; the Doctor tried in vain to cry for help and push his masked assailant away, but the chloroform soon overtook him and he collapsed on the street.  
  
"Allez, allez!" cried a young female voice. A man dressed in regular clothes and a red mask ran up to her. "Mission accomplished," he said in French into his communication device attached to his wrist like a watch. Five seconds later, a black Volkswagen hybrid screeched up to the curb. The man and woman in the red masks grabbed the unconscious Doctor's arms and legs and put him into the backseat, covering him with a blanket. The man, picking up the Doctor's overnight bag, climbed into the front passenger seat whilst the woman entered the back seat, arranging the Doctor's head on her lap. The hybrid drove off as swiftly as it had appeared.  
  


***

  
  
"Doctor," said a feminine voice. He blinked sleepily and looked over to his left. A nude curly-haired Rose Tyler greeted him with a teeth-touched smile. "Hello, sleepy head." He smiled contently, twisting his equally naked body, sore from recent lovemaking, to face her in bed. The sunset rays lit the flat like candles in a dark room. "Wake up, love," she whispered, extending her arm to stroke his unshaven face. The Doctor closed his eyes in absolution, leaning into the loving caress of his beloved.  
  
A sharp sting spread throughout his cheek.  
  
His eyes flew open and he heard the windows exploding. "EXTERMINATE!" screeched a robotic voice outside the flat windows. Frantic, he looked toward Rose, whose body was bloodied and broken. A red hole marred the perfect skin of her forehead. Soundlessly crying, he moved to cradle her lifeless body when speech abruptly came from the corpse:  
  
 _It's all your fault, Doctor. You're a piece of shit._  
  
Doctor James Noble woke up screaming. Panting, he gawked at this surroundings; he was on a twin-size bed in a dark, possibly underground flat. No windows. He felt around his jacket — no sonic and no phone. However, he still had his spectacles and billfold. Across the room were four flat-screen computer monitors on a normal wooden desk facing a black swivel chair. The walls were decorated with AC/DC posters and Star Wars and ET memorabilia. Isaac Asimov, Richard Feynman, Douglas Adams, Terry Pratchett, UNIX manuals, Marvel comics, every known conspiracy book written on UFOs and EBEs and the recent Qu'est-ce que l'extraterrestre? by intellectual blowhard Bernard-Henri Lévy littered the metal bookshelf. On the table next to the bed were a half a salmon sandwich on polar bread from Monoprix, an Ariane apple, a litre bottle of Evian and a neon yellow post-it with "FOOD — BON APPETIT" written in all capital letters.  
  
"Where am I?" the Doctor mused aloud. "I'd imagine meeting my captor soon." He heard a rattling sound in the room; the door was still closed. Underneath the desk emerged a stern-looking, lilac-coated Scottish fold with deep orange eyes. The cat yawned, stretched and sauntered toward the Doctor and stopped in front of him.  
  
"Well," the Doctor began, tugging at his ear and watching the cat, "I'd say gaoler is more accurate."  
  
The cat meowed affirmatively.  
  
"Fantastic; I've been abducted and given a cat from Glasgow as a guard," muttered the Doctor. He rubbed his face with his hands and exhaled. There was no telephone, but perhaps the computer had a Vitexphone interface. He moved to walk across the room, but the cat jumped on him, keeping him seated on the bed.  
  
"Oi! Ye glaikit ca', I'm bigger 'an you!" he shouted in a Scottish brogue. The cat growled in response. As the Doctor moved a second time, the cat bit his fingers and hissed. The Time Lord shook his fingers in pain, horrified at the violent gaoler. "This is torture!" The cat merely purred and sat down in his lap. The Doctor considered his options: one, he could perhaps bribe the killer kitty with his salmon sandwich; or two, he could try to extricate himself, which would probably result in bloodshed — his.  
  
"Oi, sunshine! Look what I have here," he reached over slowly to pick up the sandwich. "Yes, kitty," he opened the plastic container, "you can take a bung." As the cat put his nose in the air, sniffing appreciatively, the Doctor presented the sandwich to the gaoler. "Aye…take the sandwich, let me pass." The cat's strong and sturdy paw latched on to his hand, causing the Doctor to wince in pain, and snatched the sandwich. The cat bit into both the salmon and the bread, chewing them in front of him like fresh kill.  
  
James's mouth fell open in shock. "Blimey." That left him with option two. He grit his teeth, beginning to shift his weight, as the door unlatched and opened. Three youths stood filed into the room, two males, one aged approximately twenty-five or twenty-six, the other about twenty, and a female about the same age as the youngest boy. One of the boys and the girl looked similar: both were dark-haired, brown-eyed and spectacled with olive skin; the boy wore a fitting black suit and light blue Oxford — no tie — and dress shoes and the girl wore a cream sweater, blue jeans, pastel-coloured scarf and a thick black wool coat with blue Converses. The other boy, of Moroccan descent, wore a green tee shirt, blue jeans, brown leather jacket and black and white trainers. Neither captor, nor prisoner moved; they stared at each other, studying the other side's actions intently.  
  
The boy in the suit cleared his voice and spoke authoritatively. "On behalf of the French Republic, greetings, Time Lord, we come in peace!"  
  
The Doctor's mouth dropped open in confusion. "What?"  
  
"Ahem, well, yes. I'm Pierre; this is my sister, Claire, and our friend and colleague, Ahmad. Oh, c'est génial, quoi! The Doctor!" he cried excitedly.  
  
"What? Wait just a mo'!" shouted the Doctor, mindful of the animal on his lap. "Why have you abducted me? And the cat?!"  
  
Pierre clapped his hands together. "Oh, we are so pleased to meet you, Doctor! We've been following your exploits since the Cyber Wars! Please be assured that we are your biggest fans!"  
  
The Doctor's expression softened slightly. "Um, yes, well. Could you, um, ask the cat to stand down?"  
  
Pierre nodded. "Oh yes, of course. Daph, it's time for your dinner." James's eyes enlarged and rounded as the Scottish fold reluctantly jumped off his lap and followed Pierre down the hallway, downstairs and into the kitchen. The girl quickly crossed the room and sat down next to him on the bed, much to the visible chagrin of Ahmad. "Daph?" the Doctor asked her.  
  
"Yes. It's the cat. Donatien Alphonse François — Daph," Claire said, examining him.  
  
"Marquis de Sade," he murmured. "Well, it suits him." He shifted back, unsure of the girl inspecting his arms, hands and face.  
  
"Non, please, I won't hurt you. I'm training to be a medical doctor." She cradled his face in her hands. "Oh, le pauvre. You are so thin… Do they not feed you at Torchwood? And you need a shower. Pierre," she shouted to her brother, "I think those uncivilised Torchwood fascists abused him in captivity! Don't worry; they won't hurt you any longer, Doctor."  
  
James's eyes clouded over at the mention of Torchwood and the organisation for which he caused so much pain. Rose. Pierre came back inside and looked over at the empty sandwich container. "Well, you ate some, yes? I'm sorry that it wasn't a meal suitable for a guest — we weren't sure what Time Lords could eat. But you really should drink some water — chloroform can be dehydrating."  
  
"Yes, speaking of that," yelled the Donna-Doctor, "why in the bloody hell did you kidnap me?!"  
  
Claire froze, looking at him concernedly. "We had no choice. When we heard that, after so many years of nothing, you were in Paris, we wanted to meet you."  
  
"But you were recently admitted to the hospital," explained Ahmad, "we weren't sure if you had been brainwashed by Torchwood. So, we sedated you and brought you here."  
  
The Doctor crossed his arms irritably. "First, how do you know who I am? Second, you kidnapped me just so I could meet the fan club? Third, how did you know I was in hospital? You shall answer all of my questions," he demanded darkly.  
  
The three students stepped back from him, Ahmad standing in front of Claire protectively. Reminding him of his adventures with Rose and the danger they often faced, his eyes softened in pain and guilt at Ahmad's subtle gesture. "Just please tell me," he said quietly.  
  
"After Lumic was defeated, word got out in certain circles that a man called the Doctor helped Pete Tyler, Jake Simmonds and Mickey Smith save us from the Cybermen. We researched everything that we could find about you in the Torchwood archives. You didn't exist prior to 20.6, but before they managed to obscure your dossier using some kind of Bad Wolf virus, we discovered that you're an alien called Time Lord. We, uh, hack into police radios as practice," said Pierre. At the Doctor's raised eyebrow, the Parisian added, "We're Marxists. The police are fascist pigs used by the bourgeois to keep the population in line." The Doctor said nothing, arms still crossed, so Pierre continued, "During the bombing, we overheard the emergency services mention that they'd taken a Doctor James Noble from Great Britain to the hospital. They diagnosed you with trauma; we assumed that something was done to you."  
  
James stared sternly at them. "That might explain how you knew James Noble was in Paris. But there was no way you could have known that I'm the Doctor."  
  
The three looked at each other, deciding on a proper course of action.  
  
"Tell me," demanded the Doctor.  
  
"Please believe us — we took you for your own safety. We hacked the NSA and somehow they know who you are!" cried Claire.  
  
The Gallifreyan's mouth parted and closed. "Yeah, I may have hacked into their server," he said.  
  
Ahmad gave a Gallic shrug. "Everyone does. The Swedes and the Norwegians have made a game of it.  _Cyber-Lillehammer,_  they call it. Last year, Finland took gold, followed by New Germany and Guatemala. But no one gets caught."  
  
James rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, I might have been a bit out of practice! But that's beside the point. How did you know I was here?"  
  
Ahmad glanced at the others and finally said, "The patron knew. He told us that you were here to help us stop these people."  
  
The Doctor stood up from the bed, clearly agitated. "Who the hell is your boss? And what people?"  
  
Claire rose with him and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Pierre looked up to him in awe. "We can't tell you his name; it could put him in danger. And Ahmad means the NSA and Torchwood. We don't know who precisely, but someone's working for the NSA. We think they are responsible for the bombing."  
  
The Time Lord shook his head. "Well, I can tell you that Torchwood wasn't involved. Someone is cleaning up a crime, however. Why do you think it's the NSA?"  
  
"Our colleagues in Berlin and Tokyo hacked the NSA roughly five hours after the bombing occurred. We — I should say, Claire — hacked Torchwood and MI6. Three hours into their operation, they saw that someone turned over the detonator to the NSA. Torchwood, despite being there on scene, discovered nothing. Soon after, the NSA opened a top-secret dossier on you," said Pierre.  
  
"They somehow knew I used Rose's cell," he concluded to himself. "Do they have a file on Rose Tyler?" he asked worriedly. Claire visibly scowled at the mention of Rose.  
  
"Doctor, they have a file on everyone. Possibly even Daph. But there are three people they are watching, shall we say, with great interest: you, Agent Tyler and the Director of Torchwood."  
  
"Bastards," he swore. "But you kidnapped me. Why should I believe anything you say?"  
  
Pierre approached the Doctor slightly. "Because like you, we have much to loose. We're Infinity."  
  
The Doctor blinked. "You're Infinity?  _Kids?!_  You're the terrorists who hired Magnussen?" he yelled.  
  
Ahmad, Claire and Pierre looked at each other, confused. "No, Doctor. We don't know any Magnussen. We're not entirely Swedish, either. We have members in every country. Infinity was started as a secret society back in 1619 by Johannes Kepler to protect and spread the word about science. Actually, he refused the notion of infinity — thought it antithetical to the order and harmony of God. But nonetheless, we believe in the essential notion that the universe can be eventually known and understood. We have no interest in partisan politics. It's so…bourgeois."  
  
"Then why stitch up Infinity?" asked the Doctor.  
  
"Easy target?" suggested Ahmad.  
  
"I don't know," breathed the Doctor. He exhaled. "Right, well, I really must dash. Got to catch a train back to London. You really should forget about all of this, go back to uni," he glanced down at the angry-looking feline, "play with the cat."  
  
The Infinity group members gaped at him, sad and confused. "But, the Boss told us you'd help!" insisted Claire. Ahmad put his hands on her arms and glared at the half-alien.  
  
James dropped his gaze, unable to face the disappointed youths. "You were wrong. I'm not the Doctor. The Doctor's just an idea; a magician with a magic wand who can rush in, save the day and disappear in his blue box." He murmured quietly, almost as an afterthought, "He can sing a song and make the demons go away." He sniffed audibly and continued harshly, "Not me. I'm just a bloke from Chiswick who eats chips and watches telly. I'm the nothing man."  
  
A buzzing interrupted their conversation. Pierre regarded them all solemnly. "It's the Boss. Doctor, you shall stay here. Maybe he can convince you to act." Lost in reflection for a moment, he added, "You're the only one who can." He took leave from the group. Claire pleaded silently and coquettishly at the Doctor whilst Ahmad crossed his arms and waited for the  _Patron._  A few moments later, Pierre returned with the Patron. The Doctor blinked in surprise, his mouth gaping open.  
  
"Hello, Doctor."


	21. Ronin

**Ronin**

 

 

Rose heard the front door shut; gently, but firmly, she pushed away the angry American. John’s lips were swollen and wet from kissing her neck, his blue eyes, blazing in hurt, rage and jealousy, silently demanded an explanation. Her head was pounding as though she spent hours sobbing in rejection and pain.    
  
“John,” she yelled, “what the hell’s wrong with you?” The blonde’s skin was slightly flushed even as she felt nothing but confusion and pain.    
  
“I could say the same about you, Rose. You left to follow his sorry ass  **again** and you’re asking what the hell’s wrong with me?” he hissed. “Are you going to be satisfied when you’re six feet under?”  
  
Rose crossed her arms, her amber eyes like cold bronze. “I do have a mind of my own, ta. I went to get the body, which we desperately needed, and keep the Doctor safe.”  
  
The Ranger glared at her. “Bullshit, Rose. You went because he asked you. You took the fall for his fuck up because he’s the Doctor. Then you got lucky when Captain Diop vouched for you. Tell me, did you make it up as you went along or did he?”  
  
“It was my plan, John. Yes, I made it up last minute because there were no other options. Evidence is disappearing. The Doctor almost caused an international incident, let alone nicked for murder. Tell me, Sergeant O’Reilly, what should have I done?” she yelled.   
  
John inhaled deeply and paced in a tight line across the room; he tightened his fists at his sides. Rose stared him down defiantly. A moment later, he turned to her, studying her posture. “There wasn’t any other way. You saved our collective ass,” he breathed mirthlessly, “once again.”  
  
“Then why can’t you trust my judgement? Why can’t Jake, for pity’s sake?” replied Rose harshly. “I’ve fucking earned it!”    
  
“Rose, it’s not your judgement we don’t trust,” said John.   
  
“The Doctor.”  
  
“He’s not a team player. This,” John gestured tersely with his hand, “isn’t working. He’s damn lucky that we’re not in Bum Fuck Iraq. We’d either be on some jihadi’s video of the month or left wandering in the desert with a camel shoved up our ass. We can’t have him in the field — he’s a danger to everyone around him.”  
  
“Wait a bloody minute, John! He has experience we don’t have — about 900 years of it! He tried to avoid involving civilians!” defended Rose.   
  
“Oh, goddamn it! Pull your head out of your ass!” he exploded. “I know you love him. I know you look up to him. I’m not fuckin’ blind. But you have to do your job!” At the rage building in Rose’s eyes, he raised his hand. “Let me put this another way. You’re third in command at Torchwood. In twenty, maybe thirty years down the line, you’ll be Director of Torchwood. You’ve led away teams. Remember Adam Mitchell?”   
  
She put her hands to her face. “Oh, God, don’t remind me. That bloke’s an arse in every universe.”  
  
John snorted in agreement. “Stupid asshole, first-class. He nearly blew up the damn Cannon and tore a hole in our universe. You pulled him. Remember why?”  
  
Rose nodded. “Because his ‘tinkering’ without authorisation nearly cost us the project.”  
  
“Right. Now, forget this guy’s the Doctor. Forget your history with him. What would Agent Tyler do with James Noble?”  
  
Walking over to her bed and passing Cowboy, she inhaled with a shudder. She sat down and bent over in anguish. John turned his body to face her, remaining silent, not giving in to her unspoken pleas to ignore the Doctor’s behaviour. Shaking her head, Rose lifted her gaze, tears in her eyes. “I can’t do it, John. It’s quite possibly the only thing he has to his former life. In the hotel room, his eyes were brimming with life, more than I’ve seen in five months. Once the TARDIS is operational, he’ll surely quit Torchwood and move on. And he’ll not be the only one who’ll be movin’ on.”  
  
John froze and looked at her sternly, yet fearfully. “Would you go with him?”  
  
Rose did not immediately reply. Would she leave with the Doctor if he asked her to join him? For the first time since Darlig Ulv Stranden, she allowed herself to consider the possibility, however impossible it would be. As a nineteen-year-old, she enjoyed the freedom of moving from planet to galaxy to nebula. Through the Doctor and the TARDIS, Rose possessed all of time and space at her fingertips. The universe was quite literally her backyard. But there was the crux — through the Doctor and the TARDIS. Over the five years that she spent in Pete’s World, she sweated, cried and bled toward a single-minded goal to return to Universe Prime. She endured the laughter and derision at the physical ridiculousness of reaching the unreachable. But in spite of the odds, she succeeded. Rose, along with her comrades at Torchwood, discovered that, through her path from universe to universe, she had a deep and inexplicable indomitable spirit guiding her like a torch. Creating her own path was the only thing that kept her believing. But were she to travel with the Doctor, he would choose the destination and the adventure, he would come up with the plan at the last minute and she would be his bragging audience, despite her own talent in science and investigation.    
  
Is that all she was and all she would be? The Doctor’s audience?    
  
Think about why he’s alone, echoed John’s words from the Champs de Mars. Beyond the allure, the gingerbread house of the TARDIS was the controlling nature and insecurity of the Gallifreyan: he chose the planet and the means of getting them off said-planet. Rose was his equal insofar as he permitted it. She recalled only once when she was allowed to choose: the death of her universe’s Pete Tyler. Granted, her choice ended in near disaster, but she learnt from her naïve and childish mistake.   
  
Or did she?   
  
How dangerous was it that they tried to tear a hole in this universe’s reality? What would have happened if information were lost to another universe? Life, death and fixed points were forms of information; the reapers appeared in Universe Prime’s 1987 because missing information opened that universe to repair and recoding through hodgepodge — cats could fly, dogs meowed and Donald Trump was American President for Life. God played dice — to a point. The laws of physics guaranteed a relatively ordered universe and each universe’s information had to conform to those laws.   
  
“Rose?” asked the American, interrupting her reverie.    
  
She gazed up at him. The Ranger’s eyes betrayed his jealousy and worry that she would run off with the Doctor and leave him alone. “You’re owed an honest answer, John,” she said.  
  
He raised an eyebrow. “And?”  
  
“I’m not the Doctor. I took a great risk by crossing universes and in doing so, I could have caused the destruction of this universe. ‘S why I had to return, innit? Information can’t safely travel between worlds.”  
  
John moved to sit next to her on the bed. “I don’t know, Rose. I’m not a physicist. But it makes sense. Somethin’ can’t come from nothin’. At least, that’s what the nuns told us. But you still haven’t answered the question. Would you go with him?”  
  
“Information doesn’t run backwards. ‘S why he doesn’t go back on his timeline. Nor can I,” she bit out angrily. “Is that good enough for you? For Jake?”    
  
“You know he loves you,” said John quietly, attempting to avoid Rose’s eyes.   
  
Rose thought of the Doctor’s kisses at centre of the explosion from the previous evening. “I know he does, at least in his own way. But with 900 years of experience comes 900 years of habit,” she replied.  
  
John paused, shaking his head. “Rose, don’t make me your back up plan for the Doctor. I know you love him. But I can’t compete with him and I don’t think I should. I can’t compete with an idea.”  
  
Rose turned to face him. “You claim to trust me, but you don’t, John. Every time I’ve gone with the Doctor, you’ve all but asked if I’ve betrayed you.”  
  
The American looked irately down at his folded hands in his lap. “Did you?”  
  
Rose’s face turned bright red with indignation and she stood in front of the Ranger, hands on her hips. “Absolutely not! I’ve told you that whatever we may have had was in the bloody past!”    
  
John stood crossly in response. “Be sure, Rose. Don’t have one foot in my bed and one foot out. Know this: I don’t share. You’re….” he swallowed, not quite looking at her, “you’re the first woman I’ve felt anything for since my wife.”  
  
Does it need saying? she thought.  
  
After a moment, he gazed at the blonde, reaching up to caress her right cheek. “Anyway, you know how I feel.” Stroking a lock of her hair, he kissed her lips and then her temple. Suddenly, he pulled away, nauseous and disoriented. Rose winced in pain.  
  
“John, are you alright?” Rose asked, alarmed.  
  
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he answered. It must be fatigue. “You? Did I hurt you?”  
  
“No, I must be tired. Feelin’ a bit peckish, actually.”  
  
Despite a subsequent wave of nausea and foreboding, Rose opened the bedroom door and moved toward the kitchen. As she left her room, Rose noticed that the Doctor’s bedroom door was ajar. She ran to the door, pushing it open. His personal effects were missing. In alarm and feeling extreme nausea, she pushed past the Ranger and into the dining room area, calling the Doctor’s name. Her eye caught a rectangular black object on the rotunda sofa. Rose dashed over to the sofa and flipped the black object open, her heart pounding in sickening anticipation; it was the Doctor’s Torchwood ID. She clutched it to her chest as she recalled the door closing several moments ago.   
  
“He’s gone,” she growled to John, who was a few metres behind her. “Well, he’s certainly the Doctor — he always runs away.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” said John flatly. Rose turned and examined his expression. He was definitely not sorry. “We need to report this to Jake.”  
  
“Yeah,” whispered Rose. She should have seen this coming. It was her fault, she thought. Still clutching his ID, she rushed past the Ranger and went to Jake’s door. She knocked and called out, “Jake?”    
  
“What?” yelled a Northern voice from inside the closed room.   
  
“It’s the Doctor. He’s gone.”  
  
Strong footfalls approached the threshold and the door abruptly opened to reveal a shocked blond Northerner. “What? Bloody hell, what do you mean ‘gone’?”  
  
“He’s left the flat.”  
  
Jake stared coldly at both agents. “You mean he’s deserted the case, takin’ our evidence with him?”  
  
“It appears so, Jake,” interrupted John.   
  
Before Rose could interject, holding up the USB drive, Jake raised his right hand to silence her and pulled out his Vitexphone with his left, punching Pete Tyler’s number on speed dial. “Don’t even try, Rose. I am sick of his bloody shit. Let Pete deal with him.” The phone rang a moment before a tired Pete Tyler appeared on the screen. He was dressed in a plain white Oxford and black trousers. “Jake, I didn’t anticipate you ringing me until this evening. Is everything alright?”  
  
“No, Pete. Everything’s completely fucked. Magnussen’s dead, Rose was arrested and the Doctor’s run away with the copy of Tycho Brahe’s book. At least we have the body, thanks to Rose,” said Jake.    
  
Pete made a steeple with his hands; pausing for several moments, he finally replied, “Let me talk to Rose in private.” Jake handed the phone to Rose, which she took to her bedroom. Shutting the door, she quietly held up the phone and addressed her superior, the Doctor’s ID and USB in the other hand. “Dad?”  
  
The balding strawberry blond leaned back in his chair, troubled blue eyes meeting watery amber ones. “Rose. Are you well?”  
  
Despite the tears sliding down her cheeks, she nodded. “Yeah, Dad. I’m fine. And the Doctor did leave us with the book and Kepler’s letter.”  
  
“That’s at least something. But, love, you’re not fine. You’ve found the body of our primary suspect, police in another country has cautioned you and the Doctor has left nary a word. I’m concerned. You’re coming home. That’s an order.”  
  
“But we’ve not talked to the Paris Morgue yet! Magnussen’s body is our last connection to this case!” cried Rose.   
  
Pete leant forward and eyed his daughter. “Rose,” he began in a stern tone, “you’ve done well. But I cannot have an impaired agent in the field.” At the first sight of Jackie Tyler stubbornness entering her eyes, the Director softened his tone and continued, “Both your mum and I thank the stars this is your last mission. We’ve been so proud of you — you’ve nothin’ left to prove. You found the Doctor, saved the world. Let Jake and Agent O’Reilly liaison with the Morgue. Come home; humour your old dad for once, eh?”  
  
She tasted her burning, salty tears on her lips and tongue. “What about the Doctor?”  
  
Pete’s soft expression became hard at the mention of the alien. “I’ll deal with him. Please bring Jake and O’Reilly back in.” Rose obeyed reluctantly, opening the door in silent invitation for the two agents to enter. Once Jake and John came into view on the phone, Pete cleared his throat and spoke. “Right. Rose shall be on a zeppelin back to London this evening. Jake, you and Agent O’Reilly shall stay in Paris and oversee transport of Magnussen’s body to London. As for the Doctor, I’ll deal with him. He’s no longer your concern. For any of you,” he emphasized, glancing pointedly at Rose. “Understood?” The three agents nodded. “Rose, see you this evening,” he said, ending the call.   
  
“Well, Rose, go change and pack for the airport. You’re leaving immediately. John, we’ll stay and wait for the body.”   
  
  


***

  
  
  
“Hello, Doctor.”  
  
The half-alien gaped at the Patron standing next to Pierre. “Olivier?! What the hell?”  
  
Olivier stepped forward. “Doctor, apologies for the intrigues, but they were necessary. We cannot be discovered.”  
  
“Who the hell are you?” demanded the Doctor. “You’re not simply Pete’s chauffeur.”    
  
“I’m Olivier Jean-Baptiste, or at least, that’s what you can call me. I am an agent for Haiti’s sûreté nationale and a long-time membre of Infinity.”  
  
“Does Pete know what you are?”    
  
“We have an arrangement; we exchange intelligence and we have a common worry — the Americans, specifically the FBI and NSA,” replied Olivier.    
  
“The detonator,” James Noble breathed.   
  
“They retrieved it somehow. My guess is our new friend John O’Reilly gave them an early Christmas. But they’re interested in you, Rose and Pete. This is not the attention you want. So we made you disappear, temporarily.”  
  
“So you think the NSA blew up the Embassy?” asked the Doctor.   
  
“We have some suspicion, yes.” Olivier walked over to the computer console and logged in with his personal password as Daph jumped on the space next to the keyboard. The dark-skinned man scratched the cat’s cheeks and chin, waiting for the home screen to appear. Daph purred in gratitude, settling down in his chosen spot next to the Patron.    
  
The Doctor swallowed. “And you’ve concluded O’Reilly did it?”  
  
Olivier looked pointedly at him. “That’s what you can tell us. Did he?”  
  
James shook his head. “He was with the away team from his arrival in Paris to the time of the explosion. He couldn’t have.”  
  
The Haitian studied the alien’s expression for any hint for dishonesty. “Olivier, there’s no love lost between the bastard Yank and I. Rest assured that I’m telling you the truth,” growled the Doctor.   
  
“My apologies, Doctor, but in my line of work, one can never be too careful. As you may see, I have these kids to look after,” he said, gesturing to Pierre, Claire and Ahmad, “and there’s Pete and Rose. They matter.” Daph glared at Olivier, who laughed, “Sorry, Daph, too.” The cat grumbled and head-butted his hand to continue petting him.   
  
“Where are their parents, by the way?”  
  
Pierre and Claire shifted away from the Doctor whilst Ahmad bit his lip in remembrance. “Pierre and Claire’s mother was converted; their father’s a magistrate and rarely speaks to them, too absorbed in his own pain at loosing his beloved wife. Ahmad’s parents, immigrants from Morocco, and all of his siblings were converted. I adopted him and looked after Pierre and Claire,” replied Olivier.   
  
The Doctor scoffed. “So they do your dirty work like good soldiers, eh?”  
  
“No!” shouted Ahmad. “We chose this because we don’t want to see anyone else we love die! Believe it or not, Doctor, after you left, we still had to live! In war, no one talks about the time after: the people dead, the refugees crowding in camps, wondering if their families are even alive, the starvation and the loneliness! What would you know about that?”  
  
“Plenty!” retorted the Doctor. He took a deep breath. “That’s why I can’t help you. Sometimes in saving the world, the battles become too much and too many,” he concluded in a whisper. “Even when you win, you’re still alone.”    
  
Olivier stopped petting Daph and stood up, facing the Doctor. He placed a hand on his shoulder. “You have a choice; you can help as much or as little as you want. The kids may have been hasty. We’re not asking for the Doctor; we’re here to protect James Noble and the Tylers. I will ask that you stay here for a few days to keep everyone safe.” Three young faces peered at the older man in shock; Olivier shook his head at them. Now is not the time.   
  
James looked at him and acquiesced. “Alright. I can do that. What about Torchwood?”  
  
“I’ve known Jake for many years and the Tylers for almost as long. It’s this John O’Reilly who concerns me.” Olivier sat back down at the console and typed furiously. A moment later, John O’Reilly’s official dossier appeared on the screen. “I took the liberty of verifying his credentials. Born 18 January 1974 in Laramie, Wyoming to Jack O’Reilly and Candace Nilsson. No siblings. Mother died in a car accident when he was seven; father diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 1993. He attended school through the American Grade 9 and finished school through correspondence. He joined the military in 1991, with his father’s permission at age 17, and was accepted to Ranger School four years later. He graduated without being recycled, which is quite rare. Then his official service record goes blank except for a purple heart and silver star in 20.6 and his honourable discharge at the rank of first sergeant in February 2.10. Then he joined the FBI and applied for the exchange to Britain.”  
  
The Doctor walked over to the console, leaning slightly over Olivier’s shoulder. “So what does the real record say?”  
  
Olivier exhaled. “Special ops personnel have notoriously brief service records because many of their missions are classified. In a nineteen-year career, his record is very brief.”  
  
The Doctor froze. “He works for Intelligence.”  
  
“We suspect so,” affirmed Olivier. “His specialisation was encryption.”  
  
“And what of the Institut Pasteur? I found our prime suspect’s dead body last night. He was the man claiming to be Infinity.”  
  
The three youths and Olivier exchanged confused glances. “We know nothing of him,” said Claire. “We can search for him. Who was he?”  
  
The Doctor answered, “His name was Linus Magnussen, a professor at the University of Copenhagen. I’ll need my sonic screwdriver; I have a photo of him.”  
  
Pierre went to retrieve the Doctor’s sonic as Olivier did a search through the European Union’s official records of citizens. “This is strange; there is a record of a Professor Linus Magnussen at Copenhagen University, but he is deceased — since May 2.10.”   
  
James Noble looked at the official photograph submitted by Danish authorities. “That’s him,” he said. “He died due to influenza complications?”  
  
Olivier nodded. “According to his medical records, he suffered a rare autoimmune disease from birth. The flu, merely miserable to a normal person, killed him.”  
  
“Or, he was infected by the same virus that we were investigating. Was there any report of bleeding or fever?” inquired the Doctor. Pierre returned and handed James his screwdriver and phone.    
  
“High fever and some bleeding,” confirmed Olivier. “Organ failure.”  
  
“Whatever it is, when it’s active, the virus destroys the person from the inside out,” murmured the Doctor. “It also says that Magnussen was on the renovation team at Uraniborg as the lead archaeologist and historian. No known vector reported to the Pasteur or London.”  
  
“Doctor, have any of you been exposed?” demanded Olivier in a serious tone. “We can’t have this public!”  
  
“Absolutely not. My sonic screwdriver confirmed it.”  
  
Olivier took a deep breath. “Very well. So this virus, is it naturally occurring or synthetic?”  
  
“I’ve never seen anything like it and that’s saying something. According to my sonic, it’s older than the universe, which is impossible. I reckon that someone or something designed it, however; it attacks inconsistently, too inconsistently to be naturally occurring.”  
  
“We know Lumic did research in biochemical warfare, as did Britain, America, France and Burma,“ said Olivier.   
  
The Doctor shook his head in disgust. “Humans never learn. Tension in a string; shoot each other with bows and arrows. Develop pesticide; make VX gas and kill thousands in Iraq and Iran. Split the atom; drop nuclear bombs on Japan.”   
  
Olivier furrowed his brow. “But Japan was never nuked, Doctor.”  
  
“Sorry,” the alien sniffed, “different universe.”  
  
Claire gazed up at him in complete awe. “Your people never knew war? What a paradise. Maybe one day, you could take me there.”  
  
James glanced at the group, shrugging haphazardly. “Well, humans should know better. My people only had one enemy and believe me, they made the Cybermen seem infantile.”  
  
“No bows and arrows? No phasers?” growled Ahmad, eyes shifting between James and Claire.  
  
“Nope. The Time Lords wouldn’t dare use such primitive technology.” James took advantage of the subsequent silence to check his smartphone. There were eleven messages from Donna, most of which were shouts of “Where the ‘ell are you, Spaceman?” and “Don’t expect me to pay ransom if you’ve been abducted by Martians!” No messages from either Pete or Rose Tyler. He winced and pressed the speed dial for Donna’s number, putting the phone to his ear.  
  
“Bloody hell, Spaceman! Where have you been? Are you alright?” cried a worried Donna.   
  
“Oh, I’m fine,” he waved his hand absent-mindedly, “spent the night in the psych ward, found a dead body, quit Torchwood and ended up with Marxists. How are you?”  
  
“You what? You found a dead body and quit Torchwood?! You haven’t been nicked, have you?”  
  
“No, of course not!”  
  
“Then how did you get away from said dead body?” queried Donna.  
  
“Uh,” he tugged on his ear nervously, “Rose took care of it. She was the one who was arrested, actually,” he said, trailing off on the last word.    
  
The Doctor held the phone an arm length from his ear as Donna screamed “WHAT?” into the phone. His eyes avoided the shocked expressions from the three youths and the angry glare from Olivier, who crossed his arms, silently willing the alien to continue his explanation. A moment later, he put the phone to his ear again.   
  
“Oh, you’re a right bastard, James,” yelled Donna. “A right prig. I hope she was released!”  
  
“Yeah, she was released. I left soon after. She’s safe now.”  
  
Donna scoffed. “Are you sure? What about her father? Her Army boyfriend? The dead body?”  
  
“Jake presumably has the body in custody and Pete would never let Rose be harmed in any way,” he said quietly, pinching his nose. “Pete can protect Rose; he has money and influence. I have nothing, not even Rose’s l… support. He’ll toss me right out of London for this. I’m,” his voice shook, “I’m sorry, Donna. I’m so sorry. He won’t require your services once I’m officially let go.”  
  
“Fuck off, James Noble,” snapped Donna. “I thought you were moping over the brilliant Rose Tyler, vowing to keep her safe, ‘no matter what’?”    
  
“I’m sorry,” replied James in a hollow voice. He clicked the phone off before Donna could interject. He slowly lowered the inactive phone. “I need some air,” he bit out. Pierre shook his head, “I’m sorry, Doctor, but it’s…”  
  
“I NEED OUT NOW!” roared the alien, interrupting the young man’s refusal.    
  
Too shocked to argue, Pierre swallowed nervously. “Yes, the door’s this way.” The Doctor pushed past him, Olivier following, and stalked up the stairs, crossing the sitting room and out the flat’s entry. He ran to the main door twenty metres away and pushed the security button, letting him out into a darkened street. The Doctor stopped, breathing in the damp, evening air. “Have you come to have a go at me, Olivier? I suppose it’s your turn, eh?” he said tensely, keeping his back to the man.    
  
“No, Doctor,” he answered. “What happened to the man from the stories? The only man on Earth who knew exactly how to defeat the Cybermen? The man who saved Pete Tyler and his family from certain conversion?”  
  
The half-alien paused, considering the Haitian’s question. He smiled mirthlessly and turned to speak to the man. “Humans; so in badly in need of a hero. Actually, that was also true of my people. They just didn’t want…I’m done playing hero. I never wanted to be a hero; I wanted to live a normal life.”  
  
Olivier took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to the Doctor, who declined. He shrugged and lit one. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”  
  
“Then why me?” demanded James. “Why can’t you deal with this yourselves?”  
  
Olivier took a long smoke. “Do you believe in God?”  
  
“No.”  
  
He chuckled. “How French, Doctor. Karl Marx once said that religion was the opiate of the masses. Most intellectuals interpret — rightly — his statement to mean that religion held back the lower classes from rising up against their aristocratic oppressors. But that’s only part of it. The proletariat always searches for a hero from a ‘higher’ class to represent them because they believe themselves powerless in the face of adversity. One must recall that they were in history subject to a king, a president, a caliph or a tribal leader. The ultimate arbiter of justice and good was omnipresent — God, or the king. Of course, the aristocrats and the bourgeoisie control the Church.” He dragged on his cigarette and continued, “They’ve forgotten that they create the entity known as God. They created what they needed to fight.”  
  
“Olivier, haven’t you made my point?” interjected James tiredly.   
  
“Indeed. But you’ve failed to ask yourself one question: are you in need of a hero or are you the hero? Where do you stand?”  
  
“Why do I need to take a stand?” he said angrily. “Heroes loose. I didn’t come here to save the world. I was exiled here because I was too dangerous to stay in the other universe. I ended the Time War by destroying billions! Billions! And believe me, that’s just a bloody starting number for my total murder count! Do you really want someone like me helping you, Olivier? Helping those kids?”  
  
“Have you forgiven yourself, Doctor?” asked Olivier.  
  
“No,” he replied. “I can never forgive myself for what I’ve done. And stop calling me Doctor.”  
  
“What should I call you? Mr Noble? James?”  
  
The alien paused and closed his eyes. “Doctor’s fine; anything else wouldn’t be right.”  
  
“Then yes, Doctor, I want you helping us. Usually, mass murderers without a conscience believe their death count is in service of a greater good. You also reacted at the bombing. Most serial killers and warlords would see nothing wrong with such horrors. The worst men arrive at their jobs in pressed suits, attend the occasional dinner party at the UN with their husbands and wives and toast state-sanctioned bombings thousands of kilometres away.”  
  
James Noble laughed viciously. “I’m a true failure — I’m a shite killer, though I do enjoy a good meal and a nice suit. Please, Olivier, don’t ask this of me. You don’t understand.”  
  
The Haitian put out the last bit of cigarette. “Perhaps not, but the Tylers have taken care of you. They matter to you and you matter to them.”  
  
“If I stay in London, Olivier, then they’ll pay for my mistakes. I’ll be alright; I don’t need anyone.”  
  
“Doctor, a lonely man filled with desire and,” Olivier gestured at the phone still clutched in the alien’s hand, “regret inevitably brings people down to share in his hell. The wrong people.”  
  
  
  


***

  
  
Rose Tyler fumed silently as she stuffed clothes in her overnight bag. Her Torchwood team no longer trusted her judgement and the Doctor ran away, leaving them to handle the fallout. She had hoped to complete her last Torchwood assignment with dignity and success, not so questionably that the Director — her father — ordered her early return to London. She did not know at whom she felt angrier: Jake for dismissing her, John for accusing her of going to the Doctor for a quick shag at a crime scene, her father for calling her back to London; the Doctor for leaving her without a word.  
  
Maybe it was the perfect time for a change. Rose had grown tired of fighting and chasing the latest evildoing alien hell-bent on exploiting or destroying Earth. Seven years of space travel and hunting the monster of the week became repetitive; humans were no safer and she was no less cynical. She’s not even human, her mother’s words echoed from five years ago; she could not even keep a friend or a boyfriend. She couldn’t just be happy. She was left wanting.   
  
Her Vitexphone’s piercing ring brought her out of the loneliness of her thoughts. The 33 and 1 made its origin undeniable — a Paris number. Rose pressed the green telephone button and answered, “Yes?”    
  
“Agent Tyler, this is Captain Maryam Diop,” said the woman on the phone.  
  
“Yes, Captain,” interrupted Rose irritably, “the Director’s put me on his Zeppelin to London. I’m due to leave tonight.”  
  
“Very good, though that isn’t why I’m calling. The Swedish Minister-Counsellor Karl Björnstjerna has regained consciousness in hospital. He’s requested to talk to you and no one else, not even French police.”  
  
“Why me?” asked Rose.   
  
“We have no time to waste if you’re leaving. Come immediately.” The phone line went dead.  
  
Rose looked at her packed overnight bag. Her father’s order was clear: she was no longer assigned to this case and she was to leave all business to Jake and John. She checked the time; her father’s personal Zeppelin was scheduled to arrive at the airport in three hours and she was to be on it, per Torchwood and the French police’s orders. Yet the phone call from the Captain peaked her curiosity: why did the Swedish chargé and most notable survivor of the bombing want to speak to her alone and not to the esteemed police of Paris?   
  
 _Screw the French police. Screw Torchwood.  
  
Screw the Doctor._  
  
Rose pressed the app for a taxi and then put the bag strap purposefully over her shoulder. Someone had to solve this case.


	22. Vigil

**Vigil**

 

Rose walked out of her bedroom and into the sitting room, where Jake and John were seated; the Northerner's phone lie on the coffee table in anticipation of the coroner's call. John looked up at the freshly showered and dressed blonde: she was dressed in a designed black leather skinny trousers, a loose white silk blouse, a black, pink and white print silk scarf, black boots made in Milan and a long, charcoal grey raincoat. Gone was Agent Rose Tyler of Torchwood and in her place was the gorgeous Vitex heiress Rose Marion Tyler of the powerful Tyler clan. John's mouth went dry at the sight of her beauty.  
  
She inhaled and cleared her throat. "Right, I'm headin' to the airport. Here's the USB that the Doctor left."  
  
Jake nodded, accepting the USB drive. "Have a safe trip back. I'll let you know what we find. Olivier on his way?"  
  
"Actually, his phone was busy, so I'm taking a taxi," Rose explained. Over the years, Rose learnt that white lies were always the most effective at obfuscation; whilst Olivier's phone had indeed been busy, she had not made another attempt at contacting the Haitian.  
  
John glared at her in suspicion. "Jake, if it's all the same to you, I'll escort Rose to the airport."  
  
Jake also eyed Rose, but shook his head. "No, John. I need you here in case the Captain calls. Rose, you'd bloody better go straight to the airport. We're on thin ice as it is."  
  
"I will," said Rose. "I'll see you both in London." Bag over her shoulder, the blonde walked toward the flat door with John O'Reilly in close pursuit. With his right index finger, the Ranger signalled to Jake that he would return. As she exited the flat and preceded down the stairs, she called out to the man following her, "John, I'm going to the airport. What are you doing?"  
  
"Waiting for your taxi," replied John. Rose pressed the button to unlock the building door and slipped out; John managed to place his hand possessively on her lower back, guiding them out of the heavy wooden door. Rose stopped at the edge of narrow sidewalk and street, waiting for the black Parisian taxi to arrive. John's hand remained at the small of her back. He stared at her blonde curls. What could he say? John knew that Rose was up to something, perhaps to meet the Doctor somewhere or a Torchwood informant with whom neither Jake nor he was familiar. He shivered slightly at the indirect threat that his friend had made toward Rose and the Director; it would not be beyond their capabilities to neutralise a promising young agent on investigation. But voicing any opposition now would not only provoke Rose into doing something rash, but would alienate her from him, professionally and personally.  
  
 _Oh Rose, if only we were here under different circumstances,_  he thought.  
  
Leaning to her ear and wrapping his arms loosely around her waist, he whispered, "Just listen, sweet. Call me when you arrive in London. That's all."  
  
Tentatively, Rose touched her hands to his folded ones at her navel, closing her eyes and leaning back into his embrace. "Yeah, I will, John." She turned to face the uneasy blue eyes of her lover; reaching up with her free hand, she stroked his face and smiled. As the taxi pulled up next to them, he bent down and kissed her fully on the lips. Rose relaxed into the kiss, closing her eyes again, relishing those last seconds with John. His hands stroked up her arms, fingertips stroking the soft skin of her neck; when his open fingers arrived at their final destination, to frame her head and bring her into the kiss, a violent spark of electricity radiated through his fingers, his palms and into his wrists, sending him into recoil.  
  
"John? Are you alright?" asked a stunned Rose. Though her lips certainly enjoyed the kiss, her head was on the verge of a migraine.  
  
John shook his arms, flexing his fingers. "Yeah," he said breathlessly.  _What the hell is going on?_  "I guess we're at that point in our relationship when we exchange static electricity?"  
  
The taxi driver honked impatiently.  
  
"I've gotta go. I'll call you." Rose walked over to the cab door, opened it and slid inside with her bag. She gazed at the Ranger, silently willing him to understand.  
  
The Ranger gave the faintest of nods, holding up his smartphone. "I know where you live in London. I have your number. You can't stand me up," he said loudly, a red flush entering his cheeks.  
  
Rose burst out laughing and blew him a kiss through the rolled-up glass window of the taxi. As the car started to drive away from him, John O'Reilly clutched the kiss to his heart. Stiff as a soldier at attention, he stayed in the same spot minutes after the car disappeared from view.  _Would they return to Paris for a romantic getaway next year? Maybe he'd take her to Cannes instead, John thought absent-mindedly. It'd be nice for a school vacation._  
  
The ringing of his smartphone interrupted his thoughts of romance, Rose and a small red bikini. He glanced at the number: unknown. Cautiously, he answered the call, "O'Reilly."  
  
"Meet me in front of Notre Dame in one hour. And we'll skip the swim in the Seine, if you don't mind," said a male voice.  
  
The pleasant flush promptly vanished from John's face. "I'm busy. I can't just ditch an assignment. Agent Simmonds and Pete Tyler are watching."  
  
"Not my problem. One hour," the voice demanded.  
  
"It's not my problem how you go fuck yourself. I'd suggest a reach-around," retorted John, ending the call. A second later, his phone chirped; he opened the texting app and received a photo of Rose and him kissing outside the taxi. Alarmed, John studied his surroundings; there were no corners to hide behind or no open windows. He jogged to the end of the street and scanned the intersection. Cars and vans passed by on the Avenue Kléber and there was a small line at the local boulangerie. The phone chirped again, displaying the message,  _"Trust point has been made. One hour."_  
  


***

  
  
The automatic doors welcomed the elegantly dressed Rose Tyler into Necker Hospital. Captain Maryam Diop was waiting at the information desk; with a slight wave of a hand, she motioned for Rose to follow her. "Thank you for coming, Agent Tyler. The Minister was quite insistent on speaking to you," she said in an annoyed tone.  
  
"Why did he want to speak to me?" inquired Rose.  
  
"I haven't the faintest idea," answered the Captain, who led her into a lift and slapped the button for the isolated ward on the fourth floor. They stood in silence until the lift arrived at their destination. Diop exited the lift, followed by Rose, and quickly marched down a long corridor. Both women flashed their IDs at the swarm of Swedish and French security officers outside of Karl Björnstjerna's hospital room. Diop stopped in front of the security officer in charge. "Agent Olson, this is Torchwood Agent Rose Tyler of London. She was requested by the Minister," said Diop.  
  
The tall blond man nodded gruffly. "Agent Tyler," he greeted, "I'm Kurt Olson, the Minister's head of security. Please go inside, though he's still in pain, so you must be reasonable."  
  
Rose nodded, "Of course, Agent Olson." Olson pushed the door open, revealing a bedridden, slender, brown-haired man in his forties. His eyes were closed in sleep, which she suspected was the result of pain medication. As she recalled from the previous night, he suffered burns, cuts and possible broken bones from having been trapped by literal pieces of the Swedish Embassy. She quietly sat down in the chair next to his bed and waited for the Minister to awaken.  
  
"May I get you a coffee, Agent Tyler?" asked Agent Olson.  
  
"Please, if it's no trouble."  
  
Minutes later, a small cup of machine-made coffee in hand, Rose settled into her chair and stared at the man in the hospital bed. His hands occasionally moved and his face seemed to wince in pain. Rose felt nothing but sympathy for the man; during the Darkness and the initial trials of the Dimension Cannon, she had ended up in the hospital three times — twice for concussion and once for a broken arm. She remembered how furious her parents were at the second hospital visit, only four months after the first. Pete nearly sacked her due to safety concerns, but he relented and kept her on the project out of dire necessity. Of all of them, she best understood timelines and could identify the correct universe of the Doctor. Despite the reasoning, the hospital visits did not hurt less.  
  
The Doctor. Rose mentally scolded herself for drifting to  _him again._  He left them and that was it. He was not going to return. Nonetheless, she wondered how he was and if he was happier on his own. She knew that this incarnation did not, like her, to get to choose his own path.  _Sometimes, love just ain't enough,_  she thought resignedly. She closed her eyes; exhaustion had finally come to collect its debt of several nights' sleep.  
  
Sometime later, she vaguely remembered Agent Olson gently escorting her out of the room, telling her to return the next day, as the Minister was still unconscious. Night had fallen in Paris and since she missed her zeppelin back to London, she decided to reserve a hotel room at the nearby Kyriad to keep her cover. She called for a taxi and upon arrival about an hour later, the concierge at the front desk informed her that her partner had already checked in and was waiting for her in their room upstairs.  
  
 _Did John know?_  
  
Thanking the concierge, Rose took her magnetic card and climbed the staircase to the second floor, room 233. Using her key card, she unlocked the door slowly and crept inside, anticipating any surprise, welcome or unwelcome. Through the shut en-suite, she heard the shower turn off and a male sniff. A second later, the door opened and a man exited the steamed en-suite, naked except for a towel wrapped around his waist. Rose stared at him in shock.  
  
"Doctor?! What the hell are you doing in my room?" she yelled. "Where the hell have you been?"  
  
He said nothing, his chocolate-brown eyes raking ravenously over her designer clothes-covered body. After several moments of silence, he quickly crossed over to her, the towel threatening to slip from his narrow hips, and seized her head in his hands. "Waiting for you to follow me, Rose," he growled lowly and kissed her firmly. Her lips parted, allowing his tongue to slip inside her mouth. The Doctor's fingers rested at her temples and she felt a pleasant buzzing inside and outside of her skull. He broke the kiss to trail a series of wet kisses down her neck, never moving his fingers from her temples. Rose moaned "Doctor" and "Don't stop" in ecstasy, as he chuckled at her pleas. His towel fell to the carpeted floor and he pressed his body against her.  
  
"Once again, Rose Tyler, you have my full attention," he leered, his lips scraping her right temple. "I should make sure I have yours." She smiled brightly as he kissed her again, backing them to the large hotel bed.  
  


***

  
  
To her surprise, she woke first, stretching her sore, nude body. During his first months in this universe, Rose quickly discovered that he required less sleep than most humans, a probable Time Lord trait he kept during the Meta-crisis. The soft rays of early daylight illuminated the naked Doctor, who was lying on his back, his eyes closed in deep sleep. Last night was … fantastic. Simply put, she wanted more. She wanted him.  
  
"Doctor," she said quietly. He blinked sleepily and looked over to his left. She greeted him with a teeth-touched smile. "Hello, sleepy head." He smiled contently, twisting to face her in bed. "Wake up, love," she whispered, extending her arm to stroke his unshaven face. The Doctor closed his eyes, leaning into Rose's gentle caress. As she moved closer to arouse his thin, muscular body, she heard the windows exploding. "EXTERMINATE!" screeched a robotic voice outside the flat windows. Rose tried to scream out his name and cuddle around him, but found only cold sheets. As she ran from their bed, a thin man in a brown coat and pinstriped suit confronted her with cold, black eyes. Her new lover looked upon her nude body with disgust and turned away from her. His voice echoed a cold message:  
  
 _Did you think I'd stay for a mayfly human, Rose Tyler?_  
  
Rose Tyler cried out the Doctor's name as her eyes flew open. She was sitting in the hospital chair, now cold coffee still in hand. She checked her phone; only two hours had passed since she first arrived at Necker. As Rose took deep breaths to calm herself from the nightmare, her eyes fell upon the open brown ones of Karl Björnstjerna.  
  
"Minister Björnstjerna," she gasped, setting the coffee down on the table next to his bed, "You're awake. I'm…"  
  
"Rose Tyler," he said with a small smile. "Come closer, please." He reached out toward the blonde with a weak hand.  
  
"I'm afraid that I'm bit confined at the moment, so please excuse my rudeness," the Minister mumbled.  
  
"Not at all! You're lucky to be alive, Minister. How are you feeling?" asked Rose, returning his smile.  
  
"As you said, I'm lucky," he stated. "But given all that has happened, it's enough to be alive."  
  
Rose nodded. "Indeed. May I ask, Minister, why did you want to see me? You need your rest and the police are eager to question you."  
  
Björnstjerna blinked, suppressing the pain from his injuries. "I wanted to meet the brave woman who saved my life and thank her personally."  
  
Rose furrowed her brow. "Thank me? But, sir, I was just doing my job."  
  
He shook his head. "You're rare, Agent Tyler; beauty, brains and bravery. I wanted to tell my story to someone I trust. I think my rescuer probably wouldn't try to finish me."  
  
"Someone you trust? Did someone threaten the Embassy?" inquired Rose.  
  
"We had received video threats from a group called Infinity over the course of the month. We thought it was the usual people — ignorant and unemployed men trying to intimidate us."  
  
"Did you see who detonated the bomb, Minister?"  
  
Björnstjerna nodded stiffly. "Yes. I was coming out of a meeting with the Ambassador when a man in a ski mask came in. He shouted, 'Die, you perverted Swedish bastards!' in Danish." He swallowed in pain and then continued, "I recognised the voice — it was the man on the video-file."  
  
Rose frowned. Björnstjerna's story confirmed what the Doctor had asserted: the man on the video was Linus Magnussen. However, the man in question died roughly twenty-four hours before the Swedish Embassy was bombed. She was left with only one possibility: someone pretended to be Linus Magnussen at the Embassy. Since the police had not recovered either the detonator or a body fitting the description, Infinity could still be hiding among the Parisian public. She shivered at the thought of an unknown terrorist cell among them. "Thank you for telling me, Minister," she murmured.  
  
"Need sleep now, Agent Tyler," muttered Björnstjerna in a semi-conscious state. "We'll talk more later."  
  
"Yes, of course, Minister. Shall I call anyone for you? Family?" she asked.  
  
"No one," he said sleepily. "I have a cousin in Lapland, but…can't be reached easily." His head turned and he fell back into unconsciousness.  
  
Rose sat back in her chair and scrubbed her face with her hands in frustration. This case was the most difficult that she had ever worked and it included those she investigated whilst aboard the TARDIS. How could an embassy of a country that, normally, no one wanted to bomb be the victim of a lone-wolf terrorist attack carried out by a dead man? Linus Magnussen, the aforementioned dead man, had been very much alive at their meeting in London and again at the Institut Pasteur. According to the Doctor's sonic screwdriver, the virus that had killed Magnussen was local only to the men on the renovation project at Uraniborg. A virus that remained dormant until it wanted to kill and did not try to replicate itself.  
  
 _Keep 'em peeled, Lewis,_  echoed a familiar voice from long ago.  
  
Suddenly, her eyes flew open in realisation.  _The virus was a catalyst for something else — but for what?_  
  


***

  
  
John O'Reilly paced nervously outside of Notre Dame Cathedral and the large crowd of tourists at its foot, carrying two boxes of meringue, cream and chestnut pastry. He managed to convince Jake that the shitty turn of events warranted an impromptu trip to Café Angelina for their famous pastry, the Mont Blanc, and chocolates. Though the Angelina was located across from the Louvre on the Rue de Rivoli, Notre Dame was well within walking distance, so John could hide the real reason for leaving. The sky, once sunny, had turned to a sickly grey; a storm was approaching.  
  
"Notre Dame, the great French mark of power and imagination," said an American voice behind him. "Why they wasted it on a weak retard like Quasimodo, I'll never understand." The Ranger spun around and glared at the man in the raincoat. "I'm not one for places such as this, but given how our last meeting ended, I thought that this would be more…appropriate, for both of us." The man, wearing dark sunglasses to obscure his identity, extended his hand to indicate a direction away from the cathedral. John reluctantly obeyed the unspoken command to walk. The man moved quickly to flank him.  
  
"What do you want?" growled John. "You have the detonator."  
  
"You neglected to mention that your girlfriend found Magnussen's body. Tsk, tsk, tsk, John. I thought we could trust you to think with the right head," said the man.  
  
John stopped abruptly. "Tell me, did the Swedes not send you a Christmas card last year? Birthday card? I know the French dumped you a few years ago."  
  
The man sneered. "This is your fuck up. Fix it."  
  
"Well, since I've now fucked up twice — no, including the reports — three times, do it yourself. I know how efficient y'all are. But then again, I know you — can't get the raincoat dirty," spat the Ranger.  
  
The man in the raincoat approached the Ranger calmly, stopping centimetres away from the larger man's face. "You don't want to refuse, John. Not this time."  
  
John scoffed. "Yeah, I think I do. I don't aide and abet terrorists."  
  
"Really? That wasn't your tune in 2.10. But that debate's for another day. Let me spell it out for that thick Grunt head of yours. Magnussen and all evidence from this case will disappear. You have twelve hours. Failure to complete the mission will result in the beautiful Agent Tyler and your poor father suffering the penalty."  
  
"You fucking bastard!" hissed John.  
  
"Temper, temper. You wouldn't want to attract attention in post-attack Paris, would you?" the man chortled. "What did you say earlier? It's your problem how to fuck yourself? Well, you can un-fuck yourself by doing your job. It's either Magnussen's body or Ms Tyler's. Your choice. In the meantime, bonne journée," the American said as he strolled serenely past the irate Ranger.  
  


***

  
  
Raincoat Man walked along the Seine before settling on a non-descript bench. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a smartphone fitted with a scrambler. He dialled a number and put the phone to his ear. "The operation is underway. Yes, sir, he'll do it. Our problem is this James Noble. I don't believe O'Reilly that he's harmless." The man paused, listening intently to his superior on the other end before ending the call. "Yes, sir, I understand. Target shall be neutralised, permanently."


	23. Unruhe

**Unruhe**

 

  
 _„Unruhe ist der ärgste Dämon des Lebens."  
\--Berthold Auerbach, Waldfried (1875).  
(Approximate English translation: "Unrest is the worst demon of life.")_  
  
  
  
The grey skies matched the dull waters of the Seine with the general mood of the French people. The first of many public demonstrators against terrorism and in support of the Republic of Sweden congregated near République, intellectuals giving impassioned speeches calling out the "cowardice of terrorism" and the "love for our fellow man." Others marched through the streets of Paris, carrying red spray-painted banners that said "No to Terrorism!" "Sweden, je t'aime!" and "No to Hate!" Some held candles in remembrance to the victims whilst others simply held their heads up in defiance. As they walked en masse by Notre Dame toward the Hôtel de Ville, Agent John O'Reilly passively observed the hundreds of French, Swedish, American and British expatriates and others from around the world stand together in unity.  
  
 _He would rather be standing with them instead of giving the false hope of ever bringing their friends' murderers to justice._  
  
As an American, John found it a bit unnerving to watch such a public demonstration. Though his country had entered the world with the first republican revolution, his people were so individualistic that a public protest of that magnitude would be viewed as trouble making and even  _pinko._  As his father once said about the protestors during the Civil Rights Movement — particularly of Malcolm X — and social revolutions of the 1960s, they were "a bunch of goddamn commies, queers and hippies." Though John was a card-carrying member of the Republican Party and the NRA, he never understood his father's irrational fear of AIM or Kennedy's Civil Rights Bill; after all, he personally benefitted from those social reforms. It was no secret that Native Americans were treated like a human form of garbage in America — discarded and ignored.  
  
In Europe, however, no one ever asked him what his ethnic origins were, until recently. As far as he could tell, the British and French saw him as an American ex-soldier FBI agent; except for its pertinence to the current case, they considered any further inquiry into his origins as irrelevant. But John was not naïve; he knew it was because he looked European. Had he been darker, like his mother or his cousins on the reservation, he might have been mistaken for a  _bloody Paki._  In a way, nothing changed; John O'Reilly was still playing Cowboys and Indians, only he no longer knew which side he served. By his mental maths, he stopped knowing which side he was on in 20.9. He joined the military to make a difference and ended up on the FBI's Most Wanted Shit Detail.  
  
But inasmuch as John resented the United States' treatment of his mother's people, he wanted nothing more at that moment than to go home. All he had to do was clean up the NSA's "terrorist" mess and whoever the hell Linus Magnussen was, then he could be on the next zeppelin back to New York. Once he resigned from the FBI, he would drive his Ford pickup truck back to his father's ranch near the Snowy Range to live out his days in obscurity.  
  
That was the plan until he met and fell in love with Rose Tyler.  
  
John never had a problem admitting that he was in love because it so rarely happened. He had only been in love three times in his life. The first time was with his high school sweetheart, Tammy, who continued to date him even after he was expelled from St. Malachy Catholic School. They married after she graduated and he finished basic training. They were young and eventually drifted apart. She wanted a husband at home and a large family; he wanted to travel the world. The second time was, frankly, embarrassing. John remembered the date and the subsequent morning hangover, but nothing about the woman. Tammy had served him with divorce papers upon his return from the second of many deployments to Bumfuckistan. On New Year's Eve 20.1, John decided to celebrate Tammy's new life and new boyfriend at the Lovejoy's Saloon. After the eighth vile concoction of Rumple Minze and Jagermeister optimistically called a Dead Nazi and the second slimy Cowboy Cocksucker, having been dared by some sadistic, underage University of Wyoming co-eds, John's memory was understandably hazy. All he could recall was that he danced — more like leaning against — with the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen. The third time he fell in love was with a hell-raising English blonde that he had tried to herd.  
  
John O'Reilly never ran from anything or anyone; throughout his life, he earned quite the reputation for being confrontational. But now, all he wanted was to find Rose, whisk her away to some remote town in Alaska and grow old together with a few Huskies in a log cabin. He had to make a choice within twelve hours: Rose Tyler or his integrity. His grandmother used to say, "No one else can represent your conscience." As an investigator, edging the line was one thing; crossing it was quite another. John knew the FBI enjoyed making him suffer like this. Handjob McQueen once said, "You're too fuckin' good, O'Reilly. I hope someone knocks you down a few pegs."  
  
The smartphone buzzed in his pocket. It was Jake. Slipping it out and juggling the bag of French pastries, he gruffly answered the call. "O'Reilly."  
  
"John, the Paris Morgue just called. The body will be ready for transport tonight. Due to increased security alerts on the trains, Pete's gonna hold the Vitex Zeppelin until 21.00. So you, Rose and I, plus Magnussen, will be on the flight together."  
  
John sighed. "Good. What about Noble?"  
  
"You heard Pete — he's no longer our problem," said Jake. "Get back here so we can get the hell outta Paris."  
  
"Got it, Jake. I'm on my way." The Ranger pressed the green key to end the call.  
  
John understood one thing: love, humility, loyalty and integrity made strange and heavy bedfellows.  
  


***

  
  
Rose's phone buzzed to life with an incoming text from her father as she watched the unmoving form of Karl Björnstjerna. From the viewer on the main screen, she took note that the zeppelin to London would be delayed until John and Jake arrived with Magnussen's body at 21.00.  _She ought call the Doctor and offer him a zeppelin ride back to London and the budding TARDIS,_  but a deeply enraged part of her violently suppressed the thought.  
  
 _This is bloody Amsterdam Noosh all over again._  Before she met the Doctor in 2005, Rose fell in lust with a cannabis-smoking Kurt Cobain wannabe named Jimmy Stone. He was twenty, tall, skinny, tattooed and his brown hair cascaded past his shoulders. She was sixteen and preparing for her A-Levels in Business, Economics and Sociology. Although she had been interested in sitting her exams in Astronomy and Maths, her teachers discouraged her due to poor marks in maths. Jackie agreed with the school, telling a teary-eyed Rose,  _"What's wrong with business? Your father was a salesman."_  Teenage Rose hated them all — you can have it all, but only on someone else's terms. Depressed and angry, she isolated herself from her mum, Mickey and the rest of the world whenever possible, focussing on the endless equations and small print that moved, disappeared, inverted and re-arranged in her mind. One night, Shareen, her best mate since first form, dragged her out of her flat in Peckham to a rave in London Town. There, she met Jimmy Stone, who invited them backstage after his gig. Unlike everyone else, he listened to her, whispering that school was for fools and Oxbridge wankers. She was, like him, a misunderstood artist. Soon after, she started bumping off in order to smoke cannabis and listen to the Counting Crows, Radiohead and Nirvana with Jimmy. He referred to her as his inspiration. During one of those afternoons, Jimmy promised never to abandon her after she gave him her virginity and innocence. In the evening of that same day, Rose Tyler was on the receiving end of the Oncoming Slap by her mum for playing truant. She confessed everything to Jackie, declared her eternal love for Jimmy, and proudly screamed that she was no longer a little girl and she was gonna be someone. The following two months were tense at best between mother and daughter; the cynical, protective Jackie loathed the iconoclast bum musician.  
  
Eventually, the woman-child ran away from home to follow Jimmy's European tour. Edinburgh was the first time he hit her and called her a fat cow. Sheffield was the second time she ended up bleeding at the base of stone steps. Paris was the third time he stole money from her for cocaine and cannabis. Amsterdam and Noosh's bed was last time she saw him. Nursing a black eye and a debt of eight hundred quid, Rose Tyler borrowed money from her mum and Mickey to buy a one-way train ticket back to London. Rose's life became a modern Charles Dickens tale: she worked off her debt in the shops near Piccadilly Circus and came home late by double-decker to her fierce warden-mum at Peckham prison. Jimmy had been exciting and excited her. She travelled as she liked and did not require graduation to take gap year. For a brief time, the abusive musician convinced her that she was more than just another chav from south London and that she was, in her ordinariness, special. She didn't need to be a genius, rich or supermodel beautiful to be worth someone's attention. But extraordinary for a working class girl meant praying for a miracle on the order of Cinderella; extraordinary for rich men was a fait accompli. About a year later, she and the Doctor prevented the Autons from destroying Earth. Taking a leap of faith that there was more to her life than the shop, she ran away with the mysterious Doctor to watch her planet die in the year five billion.  
  
Nonetheless, she ended up with another emotionally unavailable man who abandoned her. Like a good British girl, she swallowed her anger and hurt and carried on with him until their separation at Canary Wharf. You made me better, he said in Norway, now you can do the same for him.  _Bollocks,_ she thought angrily; he was no better off than when they first met. Like Jimmy, Rose couldn't fix the Doctor. Before, she begged him not to change; now, five months later, she realised what a mistake she had made. She asked him to remain the same emotionally repressed, conceited, high-handed Time Lord that told her travel between universes was impossible. So he did, easily, leaving her with "James Noble" and the aftermath.  
  
 _If you ride to the left, you will loose your horse; if you ride to the right, you will loose your head._  
  
After five-months time, distance and therapy from the beach, Rose concluded that the Other's decision to leave his alternate self was partly out of passive-aggression. Rose thought back to the first time they said goodbye at Darlig Ulv Stranden. When she let him believe, for a brief, childish moment, that she was the pregnant Tyler woman on the beach instead of her mum, the Doctor was unable to conceal his anguish and disappointment. Since their relationship never went beyond sexually repressed friendship, it was not because he thought her child was his. Rather, he was upset at the thought that she was having someone else's child. Despite his refusal to finish that sentence at their final journey to Darlig Ulv Stranden, the Doctor could not stand the thought of another man taking his place in Rose's life. Just as his counterpart in Universe Prime had done, Doctor James Noble, unable to stand John or her decision to move on with her life, ran away and waited for Rose to chase after him as she always had. He wanted her to save him so that he wouldn't have to save himself and, like Jimmy, he would conveniently have someone to blame for their difficulties.  
  
Yet if her recent and rather steamy dream was any indicator, she still had not quite moved on from the Doctor. What was missing? In the past forty-eight hours, Rose felt more than just the chronic contentment and numbness that had afflicted her for five months; the anger, hurt, desire, regret, confusion and excitement rushed back to her body, festered and feasted. Maybe her body had been starved; during the time she travelled with the Doctor, those emotions were ever-present, always leaving her both aroused and imbalanced. The Doctor and his life were like a drug and she was in withdrawal. Whilst John provided her love, a great sex life and firm, tough support, she craved the adrenalin of danger and sexual frustration. But like with all drugs, abuse would only serve her poorly in the end. Rose could feel her time with Torchwood ending — it had to end. The problem was what to do after Torchwood and the Doctor. She suspected herself to be a little too hands-on and adventurous to be a good physicist who simply observes, though she would give Cambridge a go, hopefully with someone holding her hand.  
  
Rose needed closure; the what-ifs would destroy her as they nearly had when she was first stranded in Pete's World. The blonde agent slipped out the psychic paper from her trouser pocket and studied it like a fragile artefact. That was what it was — an artefact of her other life. She thought about giving it back to this universe's Doctor, but ultimately, she knew the Other had intended it for her. She visualised the solemn ceremony at the beach:  
  
 _At Darlig Ulv Stranden, the third time, Rose marched slowly to the water's edge and like a message in a bottle, made the words "The Doctor on the TARDIS: Goodbye" appear on the paper. Smiling tearfully, she took a deep breath and let the paper slip from her fingers and into the freezing North Sea. Careful not to look back, Rose followed the trace of her footprints back toward the car in the distance._  
  
Suddenly, a searing pain echoed in her mind like the sharp tips of an anchor caught in her skin, refusing to let go. In the four or five times she had played out the scenario in her mind, never had it ended like this. Instinctively, she willed it away, imploring for it to relinquish the vice grip on her mind. The sensation disoriented her, tugging between possession and plea. Let go, she cried! Then it as quickly as it consumed her, it vanished. In the far reaches of her mind, tingling reached out to her as if offering a hand, warm and familiar, only to be suppressed by bitterness and vengeance. It was satisfying.  
  
"Are you feeling rested?" asked a sleepy Karl Björnstjerna, whose voice cut through the silent room like glass.  
  
Rose glanced down at the Swede, his brown eyes watching hers intently. She nodded, smiling, "Yes, I think so."  
  


***

  
  
The medical examiner hummed to himself as he prepared the body of Linus Magnussen for transport to London. He was in an excellent mood; since the British were quite punctual, he anticipated leaving thirty minutes early to enjoy a good meal at the brasserie down the street and then an impromptu visit to his mistress in Neuilly-sur-Seine. The 190-centimetre-long corpse was lying inside a black body bag on a cold, metal table.  _Everything was cold and metal down here,_  thought the examiner cynically. It took a special person to remain with the deceased; few Parisians understood why he would want to commune among the murdered and the unknown. To the French, cemeteries were a symbol of romantic spleen, whereas the morgue was simply obscene.  _But someone had to deal with the shit of life,_  he thought turning his back from the corpse.  
  
Crinkle.  
  
As the Parisian signed the endless forms embodying France's second most popular activity after striking — la bureaucratie — he heard a rustling behind him and turned back around to face no one and nothing. Attributing it to hunger and fatigue, he tended to his work once again, grumbling under his breath about stupid magistrates.  
  
Rustle.  
  
The medical examiner spun around, irritated. "Hello?" he called, his voice echoing in the empty metal room. "If this is a joke, you've been caught, so give up!" growled the man. Silence.  
  
"Bof," he muttered. As he began to pick up his pen to sign the twelfth form, he froze at a faint zipping sound and then a loud crinkle. The medical examiner twisted his petrified body to face a naked, pale man sitting up on the metal table. He swung his legs to his right and stood up, centimetres away from the shorter Parisian. The man scanned him with cold blue eyes and then said in a Danish accent, "I'm sorry, but I'm going to need your clothes." The Parisian opened his mouth to scream, but the man gripped him by the neck with his right hand and snapped it like a thin birch twig.  
  
Linus Magnussen watched the medical examiner slide lifelessly to the cold floor and shook his head. "And I had to wake up in a morgue with bad food and bad clothes."


	24. Lies, Damned Lies and Statistics

**Lies, Damned Lies and Statistics**

 

Doctor James Noble sat motionless on the cream-coloured sofa eying the irascible Scottish Fold sitting on the coffee table opposite him. Though Olivier had permitted the alien to move about the Parisian flat freely, his gaoler still followed him wherever he went, from the front door to the en-suite, where the Doctor showered and changed his soiled clothes. The half-alien shut the door on him; Daph stretched up the door, turned the handle in his paws and entered the en-suite, much to the Doctor's audible chagrin. He tried to shoo him away as he dressed; the Grand Marquis made it clear through pointed sneers, growls and hisses that he did not take orders from a lowly Time Lord. Since Pierre and Claire insisted that he, like Olivier and Ahmad, was their guest and he should be at ease whilst they prepared dinner, he was left completely at the mercy of the cat. The four-legged beastie moved his paws toward the Doctor, stretching from arm to the tip of his medium-length tail, flexing his sharp claws, and then jumping onto the unwilling alien's lap.  
  
"Oi!" shouted the Doctor.  
  
Ahmad, who was fiddling with his phone in a pushy brown chair to the right of the Doctor, looked up at the sight. "I think he likes you, Doctor," he snickered.  
  
"Yeah, well, I'm really not a cat person," muttered the Doctor, never taking his eyes off the feline. Daph moved in a circle, trying to find the best position for him and finally settled in on the Doctor's reclined chest. He began paddy pawing, making sure on occasion to poke the Doctor with his claws. James winced in pain, glaring at the blue-coloured animal with the vibrant orange eyes. "Bloody bastard," he grunted under his breath. Daph looked up and slowly stretched his right paw up to the Doctor's jugular. Taking note of the cat's obvious and ominous threat, the Doctor rolled his eyes and stroked him twice. Appeased, Daph started to purr and close his eyes in momentary contentment. "Does he do this with everyone, Ahmad?" asked the compromised Doctor.  
  
Ahmad's lips twitched from his forced neutral expression. "No, not really. Usually, he avoids people. He only comes out for Olivier, Claire and Pierre. Not for me and not for Monsieur Cohen, the rare times he comes home."  
  
James glanced down at the cat again, who had not and would not move. "Lucky me," he groused. "Is Monsieur Cohen coming home tonight?"  
  
The Moroccan shrugged. "I doubt it. I haven't seen him in six months; he prefers to talk to Pierre and Claire by phone."  
  
"What a dad," said the Doctor.  
  
He shrugged again. "At least they have one."  
  
James Noble studied the Moroccan boy intensely. "And what about Olivier? He adopted you, yeah?" he inquired neutrally.  
  
The boy rolled his eyes and made a grand show of putting down his smartphone, scowling. "What do you care, Doctor?" he snarled.  
  
The Doctor straightened up as best as he could with Daph sleeping on him and threw Ahmad a look that he had not used in centuries —  _the disappointed father_. "I don't understand why you're hostile with me, Ahmad. Care to share?"  
  
Rolling his eyes once again, he threw himself out of the chair and stalked toward the kitchen, without saying a word in response. The Doctor exhaled and reclined fully on the couch. He petted the sleeping Daph absently. "I think I've set a record for having cheesed off everyone around me." The cat let out a loud snore. "Well, thank you for your support!" he snapped.  
  
James sighed. The past five months were arguably the worst he had had since the Time War. As a Time Lord, he had not considered that Rose might not welcome him into her new life with open arms, nor how the emotional fallout from the Time War might affect him as a human.  
  
Particularly after what transpired at the aftermath of the bombing.  
  
As a human, the Doctor noticed that the reaction to his Time Lord memories were decidedly different. He looked back on some with laughter, some with embarrassment, others with warmth. Most, however, he regarded with shame and remorse. The worst memories, he found, were not simply of the Time War, which were horrible in both bodies, but were those of certain companions: Sarah Jane, Adric, Martha, Donna and Rose. Adric died bravely, but senselessly, during the Doctor's fifth incarnation; as a human, he could finally admit to himself that he loved Adric, like his namesake, James McCrimmon, and was helpless to prevent his death. Sarah Jane was a good friend, if not slightly more, like Adric, but he was too afraid to be left alone, to be discovered not only as a married man, but also a father and grandfather. So in true Doctor form, he left her first. Most of his painful memories, however, seemed to centre on his previous incarnation. Martha was a good companion and mate to him; thanks to her, he pulled himself out of his post-Rose path toward self-destruction and resumed his travels as the Doctor. But the sainted physician treated the poor woman horribly; he took her to all of the places he had travelled to with Rose.  _That's the view we had the last time,_  he said to Martha, ironically from the slums, not the scenic harbour of New New York. The "we" had not been with Martha, but with Rose.  
  
 _He doesn't see me,_  lamented the young medical student.  
  
She was right; as a human, the Doctor realised that he had retreated into denial, grief-stricken, angry and suicidal over the loss of his precious girl. He needed Martha to forget, to the point of fostering her romantic feelings to avoid being alone.  
  
Yet most of his current pain and grief came from the circumstances surrounding Donna and Rose. Neither one knew just how intertwined they really were. The Donna-Doctor knew what the Other was planning to do to Donna. A two-way metacrisis between Time Lord and human was impossible; like a graft or transplant, the Time Lord mind imprinted itself onto Donna's forty-year-old human mind. But the Time Lord triple helix DNA was incompatible with a developed human double helix. The Doctor-Donna metacrisis was a failed one; her body predictably rejected the dominant Time Lord DNA and began to shut itself down at Darlig Ulv Stranden. It would have made more sense for her fraternal twin, James Noble, to absorb the Time Lord mind from Donna, since they were biologically the most similar. The Other did what he refused to do. He saw inside Donna's mind: the humiliation and pain from Sylvia's emotional abuse, the anguish of Lance's betrayal and loss, the self-doubt and the lack of confidence — all of which the Time Lord couldn't or wouldn't understand. He could not take the one thing she had always wanted: to be good enough. In the end, he ran away whilst the Other was left to purge her memory to save her life.  
  
There was, however, another reason why Donna's mind was purged on board the TARDIS. The Doctor was a sum of secrets, right down to his name and being. No one in Universe Prime could ever know who and what the Doctor was, especially not Rose. Had she known the truth, Rose would have almost certainly and bitterly rejected him as a liar and manipulator. The metacrisis was necessary as much as it was reciprocal; Donna wanted to be brilliant, the Doctor wanted to die as he was. If the TARDIS had energised his hand, then he would have been created as fully Time Lord, much like Jenny. But it wouldn't have been the Doctor. Thankfully, no one asked how it was possible for human DNA to recreate an exact duplicate of the Doctor's tenth incarnation. Biologically, it should have been impossible.  
  
Except in exactly one instance.  
  
Humans require similar human DNA to transplant body parts.  
  
In the Doctor's case, the distinction between Time Lord and human was a fabrication, both literally and metaphorically. After all, his people were the inventors of genetic engineering. His true origins, for the most part, mattered little on Gallifrey; he graduated from the Academy as a Time Lord and demonstrated the ability to regenerate. For Time Lords, the body was only as important as its ability to house the mind. The senses, specifically at the quantum level, were faulty; logic and reason were perfect. Rassilon's philosophy was, at heart, Cartesian:  _cogito ergo sum — I consider, I doubt, therefore I am_  — the mind is the centre of the the end of a Time Lord's life, thirteen lifetimes of memories and experiences were downloaded into the Matrix.  
  
Rose asked him to become human, a notion he resisted throughout the time they travelled together. He insisted that he was a Time Lord — nothing else. But if she knew the truth, she would understandably feel cheated. She would know that the possibility had always existed, but think he reserved it for someone else.  
  
With Rose, more than any other companion, it always came to choosing the lie that sounded the most romantic and impressive. As a human, he saw through the Time Lord denial and comfortable excuse of duty of care: it was love at first sight. Even after all these years and one and a half regenerations, Doctor James Noble's love never waivered: he had fallen in love with the authority with which Rose Tyler spoke in their meetings at Torchwood, the silent, upright way she carried herself when interviewing Magnussen, and the curiosity she still displayed whilst breaking into the Pasteur's vault and Magnussen's hotel room. He did not know how it was possible to fall in love with someone without fully knowing this self, but he could not otherwise explain why he ogled and fantasised about her body, why his hearing seemed more attune to her voice, pitch, tone and words whenever she spoke and why his heart thudded when she smiled. It was not that he was unaffected before — he tinkered endlessly with the TARDIS, much to the old girl's irritation, to keep his mind off Rose's rear bumper, ample coconuts and velvety voice. He compelled her to become a dinner lady and a serving girl to keep her invisible to both other men and his wanton desires. As a human, James Noble's thoughts were consumed with the blonde to the point of compulsively entering a world of fantasy and desire. In the real world,  _what could he offer her? No TARDIS, no special trips throughout time and space, no way of protecting her or telling her the truth._  
  
Rose was correct, in a way — he did not know what he wanted. On one hand, he wanted and loved Rose; yet on the other hand, he wanted her to have a good life, free from the monsters, conspiracies and danger that his existence would bring her. As the coral was not yet large enough for forced growth via shatterfrication, the Doctor could not leave Earth for another year or two. Until then, he was powerless; aliens could take over Earth and he would be, like its seven billion inhabitants, resigned to watch it unfold on telly. They could take anyone; if aliens or humans knew of his existence, his intellect and his power, then no one, least of all Rose, would be safe. Both he and the Other knew that he would never survive Rose's abduction or death. The Time Lord would barely carry on like he had done post-war; the human would inevitably go insane with grief and loss.  
  
 _She might hate me, but she'll live a long life with the people who love her, he thought. Her happiness is worth my unhappiness._  
  


***

  
  
Rose felt strangely empty and dark, contrasting with the bright hospital room. Karl Björnstjerna watched her intently. Such a marvellous creature, he thought. A bit primitive, but she shall evolve to her natural state soon. He would help her complete her special purpose in this puny, pocket universe. "Agent Tyler?" he asked softly.  
  
"Hmm?" Rose hummed absent-mindedly. "Sorry, I must've been miles away."  
  
Björnstjerna's lips turned up in amusement. "Difficult case? You're going back to London soon, I'd imagine."  
  
The blonde agent nodded. "Yes, this evening."  
  
He shifted on the hospital bed, moving to sit upright. "If you don't mind me asking, Agent Tyler, how did you come to work for Torchwood?"  
  
She shook her head, smiling. "No, not at all. I started working at Torchwood after a…loss. I wanted to help people and forget about my pain."  
  
The Swede gazed at her. "Sounds familiar. I became a diplomat to make the world a better place." As he seemed to relax around her, Rose felt a faint, chilly draft entering her bones and blood,  _mad as the mist and snow._  
  
Attempting to disregard the hair that stood erect on her neck, the blonde agent rose from her chair, preparing to leave. "Is there anything else you can remember, Minister?"  
  
He observed her movements, eying the uneasy expression on her face. "No, Agent Tyler. Please find the persons responsible." As she turned to pick up her bag, the Minister called out, "One last thing, Agent Tyler, if you will? Would you please fetch the books in my bag? The telly's absolute drivel and sitting in a hospital bed is rather dull."  
  
Rose relaxed at his request; she went to his black leather bag that, she assumed, Agent Olson must have brought from his residence in Neuilly-sur-Seine, and pulled out two leather-bound volumes. The first was a collection of poems by Edgar Allan Poe and the second was a special tercentennial edition of the  _Somnium_  by Johannes Kepler. Rose froze at the last book. Karl Björnstjerna's eyes followed her surprise. "I enjoy old science fiction. You know Kepler's  _Somnium_ , Agent Tyler?"  
  
She swallowed agitatedly. "Yeah, I do. It's a good story." She abruptly handed the volumes to the Swede and muttered her goodbyes. Exiting the hospital room, Rose ignored the frantic ringing in her pocket. Her surroundings were silenced except for the scratchy whisper of sinister words in her mind:  
  
 _"From the sun that round me rolled_  
  
In its autumn tint of gold,  
  
From the lightning in the sky  
  
As it passed me flying by,  
  
From the thunder and the storm,  
  
And the cloud that took the form  
  
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)  
  
Of a demon in my view."  
  
Her amber eyes cascaded to shiny, obsidian black.  
  


***

  
  
The Doctor blinked back tears; as a human, he never felt so alone in the darkness. Other than the faint music of the TARDIS, he could not hear anyone in his mind. Daph woke up and tilted his head up at him quizzically. Standing up, pressing his sturdy legs into the man's chest, the cat walked up his sternum so that his face was centimetres from the alien's. Standing on his hind legs, he rested his arms and paws on his shoulders. The Doctor's tears slid silently down his cheeks, his eyes fixated on the blue-grey cat. Daph leant forward, licking lips and whiskers with a long, blush-coloured tongue. Wet cat nose met dry humanoid nostrils. The Doctor reached up to pet him when he felt a set of sharp teeth piercing the bridge of his nose.  
  
"Ouch!" cried the Doctor, rubbing the source of his pain. Daph jumped onto the coffee table and smirked. The Doctor stood up, glaring at the Scottish Fold. "You bloody tosser!" The Grand Marquis yawned, licked his paws and lay next to the Doctor's smartphone.  
  
"Oh, no, you wanker. You'll not be taking my phone!" he spat, picking it up from the table. He turned unlocked it to mail viewer; a message from Pete Tyler awaited him. Groaning, he opened it, expecting an icy termination of his contract at Torchwood. Instead, it was a blind carbon copy of an original email sent to his former associates regarding an itinerary for a Vitex zeppelin scheduled to depart Paris at 21.00. A secure, encrypted message using pre-Cyber Wars binary 9 was attached; his Time Lord mind easily cracked the complicated code that read in English:  
  
 _Do not take Zeppelin. Drive instead. Calais's nice. —PT._  
  
James's brow furrowed. Obviously, Pete wanted him to stay in Paris with Olivier, but for what reason?  
  
"Olivier," he called out, "did you hear from Pete?"  
  
Olivier came upstairs upon hearing the Doctor's voice and walked into the sitting room. "No, I haven't heard anything from the Director today. We haven't spoken since before you arrived, Doctor," he said.  
  
"Well, isn't that wizard?" remarked the Doctor, "Because I just received a message from Pete. There's a zeppelin bound for London scheduled to leave tonight at nine o'clock. He told me via coded message to stay with you here. How did he know that I was with you?"  
  
Olivier shrugged. "I don't know, Doctor. Part of the ruse to bring you here was not telling him, obviously. And none of the kids know Pete. May I see the message?"  
  
The Doctor scanned him suspiciously. "Olivier, just what the hell is going on? My life, in the span of forty-eight hours, has become a bloody Ian Fleming novel."  
  
The Haitian looked at him confusedly. "Ian Who?"  
  
James bit his lip in exasperation. "Oh, never mind. Just tell me what this spy rubbish is about."  
  
"Honestly, Doctor, I have no idea how Pete would know. I don't think he could."  
  
Drying her hands with a dishtowel, Claire exited the kitchen to join Olivier and the Doctor. "May I look, Doctor?" Studying the concerned, yet interested looks of Olivier and Claire, the Doctor finally yielded the smartphone to the young woman, who read the email and the encrypted version. "Doctor, someone is spoofing this man's email address. It's virtually undetectable, except that Torchwood has a specific server." At the Doctor's raised eyebrow, she blushed, "We keep them under surveillance in order to keep track of you. But anyway, someone wants you to either respond or track your whereabouts." She scanned the email and froze. "Putain, Doctor! You opened this attachment?"  
  
The Doctor looked down and mentally cursed himself. "Bloody Trojan! Now they know where we are. Shit!" He quickly pulled out his sonic screwdriver and scanned his smartphone. "Don't worry; they think I'm in Ireland." At their sceptical glares, he added, "Well, I'm using the same path that NORAD uses for Santa's sleigh."  
  
Olivier gazed at the phone worriedly. "Could they track you here? If so, then we need to leave immediately."  
  
James shook his head. "I doubt it, though somehow the NSA knew I broke into their servers." He looked at his screwdriver furtively. "I don't know. The sonic hasn't worked properly since I arrived in this universe."  
  
"Different universe?" exclaimed Olivier. "We'll discuss this later. Pierre, Ahmad! Get your coats and a change of clothing. We also need Daph's cat carrier. We're leaving Paris tonight," cried Olivier. "Doctor, use my phone to call Eileen. It has a scrambler. Don't use your smartphone anymore." He tossed it to the Doctor.  
  
Glancing at the email and attachment, the half-alien's eyes chilled from chocolate brown to icy black. "Olivier, Claire, the forwarded message is also a spoof. It's from the same server, yes?" Olivier and Claire grabbed the phone and reread the message. Claire nodded slightly, afraid of the man before her. "Yes, you're right, Doctor."  
  
"Rose is in danger. She received the original message. We have to find her before they do," rasped the Doctor.  
  
Pierre entered the sitting room with a small blue bag and a cat carrier. Daph backed away from the young Parisian upon seeing the carrier and let out a loud hiss. He eased the duffle bag-like cage, whose inside was lined with towels and cat toys, and tapped the floor. "Viens, Daph," he coaxed the growling blue beast.  
  
"Oh, for pity's sake," muttered the Doctor, who used his Converse-covered foot to swiftly push the aggravated cat into the cage. As a shocked Pierre closed the door, Daph swung at the humanoids, let out a snort and made sure that the Doctor saw the enraged orange twinkle in his orange eyes. "That's for earlier, tosser!" scoffed the half-alien. The cat settled in the cage, narrowing his eyes to patient slits.  
  
"So where are we going, Patron?" asked Ahmad.  
  
Olivier quietly and cautiously went to the window and looked outside into the dark street. "I don't quite know yet."  
  


***

  
  
A dark Peugeot parked across from a small apartment in Neuilly-sur-Seine, where a man in a dark raincoat sat calmly in the driver's seat and looked at his tracking device. Maybe John was right; James Noble seemed to be just a bumbling idiot who would open any candygram. The man carefully laid the device on the passenger seat, pulled out a Smith and Wesson with a silencer and checked the ammunition. "…Three blind mice. Three blind mice. See how they run. See how they run. They all ran after the farmer's wife, who cut off their tails with a carving knife…" he whistled and mumbled intermittently.


	25. Situation Normal, All F*cked Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An appropriate title, especially given the Brexit referendum.

**Situation Normal, All F*cked Up**

 

Thirty minutes after receiving the call from Jake Simmonds, a forlorn John O’Reilly returned to the Paris flat. Jake had organised all of their belongings and set them in the rotunda in anticipation of leaving the City of Lights that evening. John, as well as Jake, welcomed the change of scenery; ever since Rose was forced to leave the French Republic and Clowndick became an AWOL clowndick, he did not want to leave her side. Whilst Jake remained neutral on the surface, John knew that he felt the same way. Jake was never the same after Mickey Smith left their universe. He was unforgiving and angry, emotions to which the Ranger could personally relate in the moment.   
  
“Ready to leave? I know I am,” barked Jake.   
  
“Yeah. Paris wasn’t what I thought it was gonna be,” replied John. The Northerner, picking up his bag, hummed in agreement. He opened the front door and held it for the Cowboy. The larger man walked through it with a heavy heart, trying not to think of his one last betrayal.    
  
  


***

  
  
  
Unable to reach Olivier, Jake decided to leave the flat and head directly to the Paris Morgue. Upon arrival, the two Torchwood agents were instructed to wait at the main desk. Jake tapped his foot impatiently. Though it bothered him that Cyril had not called in three days, he knew that being a media mogul kept him busy. Whilst most Londoners took the Underground to some nine-to-five boring desk job every weekday and went home to the wife or husband, both he and Cyril’s normal workweek was twice the average and they were lucky to see each other once every two weeks. He could not help but feel an intense loneliness settle within him; Rose was resigning to study physics at Cambridge and John would no doubt return to the United States at the end of the year. Without Rickey or Mickey, Jake really did not know how or want to return to a boring life in Manchester. One last case for them all, he thought. No matter what, Jake would carry on the good fight with Pete. He worked for the Vitex tycoon since 20.6 and had been serving the British public since 20.4. Ten years in the future, or whenever Pete decided to retire, he would undoubtedly be the Director of Torchwood. Leadership was always a lonely place; the man who makes the hard decisions is inevitably and equally feared and loathed by those beneath him.    
  
Simmonds glanced at the American standing next to him. Unlike other Torchwood agents who so often joined the cause and left it behind after the first death to affect their team, John stayed for nearly two years and seemed inclined to remain in Great Britain. The Ranger embodied everything that he had once believed the Doctor was: loyal, clever and hopelessly in love with his partner. When Jake first encountered the Doctor in 20.6, he was mesmerised by his intelligence and decisiveness. However, in the past six months, he was, like others around him, unimpressed by James Noble, the man who ran away in the midst of a difficult case. Maybe he believed he was helping Rose by leaving; maybe he no longer wanted to be the Doctor. Jake did not think he would ever really know the answer. From what he gathered, Noble was not entirely happy to have been left in their universe. The Briton knew the possibility existed that James Noble was not in love with Rose, unlike his fully Time Lord counterpart; Rickey was his lover, but Mickey was unilaterally heterosexual.    
  
 _Mickey may have been right; perhaps Rose set herself up to be disappointed. Maybe they all did._  
  
“What the hell is going on?” mumbled the Briton. “Taking a body out of the fridge doesn’t take this long."  
  
“Dunno. It’s like the Army — hurry up and wait,” said John, looking at his watch. They’d been waiting for one hour. At least it was Pete's corporate zeppelin. Pulling out his Vitexphone, the Ranger opened the email app to check his unread messages from the past two days. One was from his father inquiring if he would be home for Christmas, several more were chain letters from the FBI regarding security protocols and the last was the zeppelin itinerary sent to the Torchwood team from Pete Tyler. Skimming the message, the email address and servers seemed on the surface to be legitimate; but fifteen years as a cryptologic linguist trained him to spot subtlety. The footprint of the email was an obvious spoof, the handiwork of a plethora of intelligence agencies. Based on the author’s command of Standard British English and binary 9, he guessed that it originated from the CIA or NSA, which meant that a Trojan or form of malware was assuredly attached. John frowned in confusion; this was an obvious waste of resources and code, a feat worthy of the defence contractor Lockheed Martin, whom the Army Corps of Engineers called  _Dickweed Moron_  for its sordid history of phenomenally cocked-up projects. After all, they already knew their location. At least, Raincoat Man did; usually, he busied himself with blackmail and keeping John under his thumb.   
  
Someone else was the mastermind.   
  
The more John thought about the current situation, the less comfortable he felt in Paris. Nonetheless, John found himself in a complete number ten fucking thousand: warn Jake, out himself as an American plant and very well be charged with espionage; or, say nothing and sacrifice Rose, Jake, innocent bystanders and his integrity. Until his last years in the Army, John never believed that meeting the enemies of the Unites States and never embarrassing his country would be in conflict.  
  
 _Decisions, decisions,_  echoed the Raincoat Man’s voice. The Ranger regretted not doing more than just making him a prime candidate for the Rock Squad.   _Fuck,_  he cursed;  _he was a motherfucking member of the 75th Ranger Regiment — he’s seen worse FUBARs_. He took a deep breath and reconsidered the situation at hand; since the US Government was incapable of conducting a flawless, competent mission or assassination, whatever this case may be, Rose and Jake were momentarily safe — for approximately eight hours.  
  
Footfalls drew the attention of the Torchwood agents. Three policemen lined up to greet them at the desk. “Agent Simmonds, I’m Lieutenant Benoit. There’s a problem with Mr Magnussen’s body.”  
  
Jake glared irritably. “What do you mean ‘a problem’? We were summoned here by the Morgue; now there’s a bleedin’ problem?”  
  
The police officer remained neutral in the face of the British man’s anger. “Yes, I understand, but the body’s disappeared. The Morgue’s just as dismayed as you, Agents.”  
  
John watched Jake and the policemen carefully. Did his friends beat him to the punch? “Someone  _stole_  the body?” he asked sceptically. “Who would want to steal a body, Lieutenant?”  
  
The three policemen exchanged looks, confirming both Jake and John’s suspicions that they were being less than forthcoming with vital information. Finally, Benoit spoke, “The coroner’s been murdered and his clothes…stolen. The security camera…Well, it showed Mr Magnussen very much alive, despite having been through an autopsy.”  
  
Jake’s mouth fell open and John crossed his arms in disbelief. “What kind of French horseshit is this? You’re telling us that a dead man is no longer dead, but is some kind of Viking zombie?” the American spat.  
  
Benoit bristled. “I assure you, Monsieur, that I am speaking truthfully. If our intention was to hide something, we could come up with a less farfetched story.”  
  
John rubbed his face with his left hand whilst Jake, frustrated, eyed the French policemen. “So where the fuck did Magnussen go?” sneered the Manc.    
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
Karl Björnstjerna calmly licked his finger and turned the page of his copy of the Somnium, softly humming to himself in his bed at the Hôpital Necker. In the background, he faintly recognised the voice of Agent Olson announcing another visitor. Footfalls approached his bedside and stopped short of it. Björnstjerna flipped another page. “Very nice piece of literature, the Somnium. It’s too bad that the humans don’t teach it in their mediocre schools; it’s all about Don Quixote, Hamlet, Faust or some other dull crap. Jussi Vares is entertaining, but I couldn’t find an original Finnish copy in all of Paris. Can you imagine? Of course, it’s nothing like ours, but it’s enough to chase away the sheer boredom of living on this godforsaken rock.”  
  
Linus Magnussen seethed with rage at the serene Swede. “How many fucking times do I have to die in this great scheme of yours? The initial infection sustains us for only a short time and of course, I’m the one who’s always hungry!”  
  
Björnstjerna rolled his eyes. “Then take that potato out of your mouth. Of all the bodies you chose to inhabit, you picked a Dane? You’re a German with cotton balls.“  
  
“You’re only two steps away from Norway,” hissed Magnussen.   
  
Björnstjerna shrugged. “Point taken; the Norwegians are quite thick. By the way, where did you get those rather ugly clothes?”  
  
  
The sickly-skinned Magnussen was adorned in too-loose black trousers, a piss-yellow Oxford, a sea green-striped tie and a light brown cardigan. He was missing shoes and instead wore black trouser socks. “They’re the coroner’s. I was pressed for time and he no longer needs them.”    
  
“Next time you kill someone, at least choose a man with good taste,” huffed the Minister. “In any case, our problems shall soon be resolved. I’ve located a great source of both energy and darkness. The Heiress shall serve us well.”  
  
Magnussen’s brow furrowed. “Agent Tyler? But what about James Noble?”  
  
The Swede grinned evilly. “He’s interesting, but not quite as much as Miss Tyler. She’s literally made of the Treasure.”  
  
The door opened and Olson let a petite, brown-haired nurse in her forties enter the room to check Björnstjerna’s IV and vitals.   
  
The Dane raised his eyebrow in surprise. “Really? But that would sustain us…”  
  
“For centuries,” finished Björnstjerna.    
  
Magnussen beamed eagerly. “Shall I procure her? She is soon to leave for London.”  
  
The Minister shook his head. “No. That would draw too much suspicion. Patience is warranted here. Instead, she shall come to us. Willingly.”  
  
“How?”  
  
Björnstjerna laughed darkly. “The answer is your James Noble.”  
  
After a few moments, the nurse stopped, turning her head from the Swede to the Dane. “Sorry, Messieurs, but is there a problem? You’ve said absolutely nothing for the past few minutes.”  
  
The Minister-Counsellor peered at her over the top of his spectacles. “No problem; my friend here is mute. We’re communicating through blinks and signs. Very clear indeed, right, Linus?”  
  
The Dane shot daggers with his blue eyes at the Swede before making nonsense signs with his hands to convince the nurse. She shrugged and blushed. “Pardon, Messieurs,” she apologised.    
  
Björnstjerna made a sign with his hands whilst communicating with his mind: “Patience. In the meanwhile, recover this mysterious book by Tycho.”  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
“How much time do we have?” asked Ahmad, putting on his brown leather jacket.  
  
Agent Olivier Jean-Baptiste peaked out the sitting room window and spotted a dark Peugeot recently parked across from their flat. Shit! Don’t these NSA idiots ever change tactics? he thought miserably. He moved quickly from the window, strode single-mindedly to his bag and, much to the shock and horror of the four other people in the room, pulled out his MAC 50 sidearm. Taking a deep breath to calm down, Olivier turned to the Doctor and the three youths. “You cannot go outside. I am going to call for reinforcements. Doctor, I’ll need my phone.”  
  
“Is it the NSA?” cried Pierre as he wrapped a long black, silver and red scarf around his neck.  
  
“I suspect so, Pierre. Whatever you do, do not yell, move or make any unusual sound. It will provoke whoever’s out there,” replied the Haitian.   
  
The Doctor, displaying a dazed, ashen expression, tossed the phone to Olivier, who hurriedly dialled a number and started to speak in terse Haitian Creole. “This is my fault. I’m sorry,” whispered the alien.  
  
Claire went up to him and stroked his arm in reassurance. “Doctor, anyone would have opened the attachment. And since your device isn’t working properly, you had no way of knowing.” Ahmad glared jealously at the humanoid and the young Frenchwoman. Pierre gestured him away from the scene, fearing a heated confrontation between Ahmad and the Doctor. The Doctor continued to look at the floor in shame and anguish. Olivier ended the phone call with “Oui, d’acc” and switched off his phone.   
  
“I’ve called in some friends from Saint-Denis to help us get out of here. I must stay behind.” Just as the three youths were about to object, he raised a hand to silence them. “Doctor, do you know how to drive?” At the Doctor’s faint nod, he continued, “You must take Ahmad, Pierre and Claire to a safe location out of Paris.” Olivier took out a piece of paper and wrote down an address. “Drive to this location; it’s a safe house for Haitian Security officers. Once you’ve arrived, the Sûreté will transport all four of you to London. Pierre, Claire, do you still have your British passports?” Claire, silently as possible, ran to retrieve them from her father’s study.  
  
James’s eyes rounded in surprise. “Wait — you’re British?”  
  
Pierre replied softly, “Our mother was born and raised in Jerusalem.” The Doctor looked confused. “British Mandate of Palestine,” the young man added.   
  
“Their French passports would be more than sufficient to enter and stay in Britain, but the Americans may try to force an extradition. Britain and Director Tyler will be less likely to comply if you’re British citizens,” explained Olivier.    
  
“What about Ahmad?” Claire asked. “He isn’t British.”  
  
“No,” agreed Olivier. “But France is not safe for him. Once you all arrive in England, perhaps the Director can do something. If not, I’ll send for him in Port-au-Prince. Haiti has no extradition treaty with Britain or the US.”    
  
The Doctor shook his head. “I may not have been on Earth for an extended period of time, well, since the 1960s, but I do know that Americans love technology, specifically satellites. And since my screwdriver is apparently not functioning,” he said irritably, “they’ll be able to track us. He’s looking for me, not any of you.” He stared at them with pained eyes. “I’ll go alone, lead them away from you.”  
  
“No, Doctor, it’s too dangerous and they’re looking for all of us. The NSA rarely cares about one individual. Haiti will buy you some time, but you’re right. The satellites would eventually find you. That’s why you need to find a way to contact Director Tyler. He’s no friend of the Americans and he’s a public figure, public enough that not even the Americans would try an assassination. And believe me, there have been attempts,” Olivier said quietly.  
  
“What?” James cried. “Why?”  
  
The creak of the main door to the flat building reverberated throughout the halls. A moment later, the four heard footfalls approaching the flat door. Carefully, Olivier went to the door, switching the safety off on his MAC 50, and pointed it at the slit between the door and wall. The Doctor moved in front of the three others and aimed his sonic screwdriver at the door. The footfalls moved past the door and up the staircase.   
  
“Neighbours,” whispered Ahmad, relieved.    
  
Olivier took a deep breath and lowered his weapon. “Doctor, Ahmad will fill you in on the details once you’re out of Paris.” Daph mewed pitifully, his tail fluffed like a skunk’s; Pierre went to the cat carrier and put his finger to Daph, who lightly scented and gnawed on it. “Ne t’inquiète pas, minou.” The Scottish Fold glared at the Doctor and began to purr gently at Pierre’s light caresses.   
  
“Tosser,” muttered the Doctor. Daph retorted by narrowing his orange eyes and displaying his front canine. The half-Gallifreyan moved away from the cat and paced the sitting room restlessly, inhaling deeply for several moments to calm his single heart that thudded dully against his ribcage. Romana and Peri used to tease him about his sonic screwdriver.   _What happens if you loose it?_  the latter taunted. Martha joked about his ineptness without a sonic  _toy._  Consequently, he carried one in every suit and in every bigger-on-the-inside coat pocket. The Doctor just needed to think. Yet his single heart pierced through his higher functions like an ice bath. He was terrified — not that he would ever admit it to anyone. He was good at formulating a plan last minute. He could do this. The cat watched him with slanted eyes.   _Bloody fur balls,_  James lamented to himself.   _If only Rose was here; she would make it better.  
  
Rose._   
  
James whirled around to Olivier in panic. “Olivier, what about Rose? She received that email. She’s in danger.”  
  
“There’s nothing we can do,” interjected Ahmad. “We can’t even leave the flat!”  
  
Think, think, think! James realised that his brow was drenched in cold sweat. He had to save Rose; he would not be able to live with himself if she were harmed. But instead of processing, assessing and finding a last-moment solution at a speed nearly of light, his hybrid mind proceeded worriedly step-by-step at the dull speed of sound. His breathing was the only noise he actively heard, despite perceiving the high-pitched tone of a worried Pierre in the background, and the room shrank from an open, three-dimensional space into a two-dimensional tunnel. James Noble was helpless; the last tactile tie to his Time Lord essence was the sonic. Now he had nothing. Soon, he would loose the woman he loved. He felt his feet move toward the front door and several pairs of hands pulling him back to his original position, occasionally gripping his dark blue blazer. He would give these bastards what they want, if only to save Rose’s life.   _The world needed Rose Tyler; it didn’t need him._    
  
“Doctor, stop! Are you trying to kill us all?” cried Ahmad, restraining him by the arm. Claire looked on in horror whilst Ahmad and Pierre struggled to confine the mad half-alien. Olivier checked his watch in invisible panic —  _five more minutes._  
  
Helplessness, death and loneliness; James’s mind replayed the scene of their impending deaths over and over again.   _Loneliness!_  That’s it! His eyes changed from dull and lifeless to dark and manic. “Pierre, your computer! Could they track it right away?”  
  
Pierre shrugged. “I don’t think so; not initially. But we’d only have minutes.”  
  
“Right! Since we can’t leave, we need a distraction. Just enough to confuse anyone outside when help arrives.” The Doctor dashed over to the computer and, much to the group’s surprise, easily hacked into the interface and called up the terminal. A black screen and white cursor appeared. They observed in shock as the Doctor’s fingers flew across and against the keyboard. “It appears I’m also the fastest temp in Chiswick,” he muttered excitedly. A moment later, he shouted in victory.   
  
“What is it, Doctor?” asked Olivier.  
  
“Yank the Wank out there may have hacked my phone, but a door opened can be passed through from either side.” He grinned brightly. “I just hacked into his phone.”  
  
“You’re joking,” gasped Pierre.   
  
“Nope,” said the Doctor proudly. “Genius, me. I’ve also made it a one-way door of sorts. He can’t walk through it.”  
  
“So who’s out there?” inquired Olivier.   
  
“His phone is registered to…Oh, John Doe 298976,” he scoffed. “Definitely a secret agent. Home location is Langley, Virginia.”  
  
“CIA,” confirmed Olivier. “The NSA and CIA work hand-in-hand. The NSA is concerned with telecommunications, whereas the CIA’s the muscle. Why is the CIA here?”  
  
“Hello,” interrupted the Doctor, “he’s been texting under the name Caesari76 to one j.oreilly74@fbi.gov. The texts date from 2 February 2.12.”   
  
Olivier peered at the screen over the Doctor’s shoulder. “So Agent O’Reilly has been a mole since the very beginning of his stay in Great Britain. Can you access any of these texts?”  
  
The Doctor pressed a key, then another, shaking his head. “They’re scrambled. Gah! If only my screwdriver worked, then I’d be able to unscramble them, pas de problème. Although….” His fingers flew once again across the keyboard, a series of commands appearing on the terminal. After a final moment, he pressed the enter key, and the list of texts opened on the computer screen in readable English.   
  
All discussed baseball.   
  
The last text featured a picture of John and Rose kissing passionately outside of the Tylers’ Parisian flat with the caption “Trust point has been made. One hour.” Taking an anguished breath to self-distract from the image on the computer screen, James said quietly, “This man has been using Rose to threaten him.” Dark rage soaked into his heart, his eyes morphing into pure obsidian —  _these men would pay._  The Doctor began to methodically type commands on the screen. “Fine. If he wants to make threats through his phone, let’s see how he likes his phone threatening him!” he hissed. Jumping out of his chair, he ran to the sitting room, grabbed his sonic screwdriver and returned to the computer console. The half-alien ripped open the screwdriver casing and removed part of a single wire and an USB-like connector. Attaching it to the computer, the Doctor manically typed more commands.    
  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
Raincoat Man drummed his fingers against the steering wheel of the Peugeot. Working in Intelligence had its perks, but it very often included boredom. Targets never did the expected.   _Couldn’t that Limey asshole just come out and take a bullet to the brain like a man?_  After all, he had three more targets to take care of before morning. There was the option of breaking and entering, but the assassin considered it a risk, especially in and around Continental European blocks of flats, where a neighbour would more likely witness him entering and leaving the flat. Rolling his eyes in annoyance, he picked up his phone and inserted an ear bud. As a CIA agent, he had to keep an extremely low profile. The wife and children he left in America technically belonged to another man with a real name, birthdate and birthplace. He, on the other hand, was an unknown John Doe. Yet he allowed himself one tie to his true identity — a single app on his Vitexphone. He clicked it open and downloaded the most recent American football match between the Denver Broncos and the New England Patriots. Checking the final score, he noted with glee that the Broncos crushed the Patriots 31-7.   
  
Just as he settled into the driver’s seat to watch the Patriot Apocalypse, Raincoat Man blinked in surprise as a crowd of fifteen to twenty youths, dressed in Paris-Saint-Germain footballer shirts, jeans, New York Yankees coats and bandanas over their faces, marched down the dark street toward his car, shouting, “Neuilly-sur-Seine, notre peine!” and blaring MC Solaar’s C’est ça que les gens veulent from a V-Pod connected to a cordless boom box. Lights flicked on up and down the street; angry Parisians desiring peace and quiet opened their windows to yell at the noisy youths below whilst others presumably went to telephone the police. Cursing under his breath, Raincoat Man yanked the ear bud from his ear and reached for his weapon, hiding it from their view. He sighted two youths carrying wine bottles stuffed with petrol-doused white rags. A girl approached them with a lighter and lit the rags. They stared at the Raincoat Man’s Peugeot. The American’s eyes widened. The bottle left the girl’s hand and flew through the air toward the driver’s open window. “Shit!” he growled, as he grabbed his phone, gun still in hand, and dashed out the passenger door. The cab exploded in fire and the youths cheered with a loud “Ouais!”  
  
“Goddamn kids,” grumbled the American. He stood up, raising his Smith and Wesson, and pointed it at the crowd. “You just fucked with the wrong American, kids. Go home now!” He unclicked the safety. Some of them put up their hands; others merely stared at the man. “This is your last warning,” he shouted. Suddenly, the American shook uncontrollably, as if being electrocuted, and crumpled to the ground. The youths slowly put down their hands and circled the unconscious man’s body. At the same time, five people, one carrying a cat carrier, silently exited the flat building to the right. Olivier Jean-Baptiste approached the crowd, gun pointed at a forty-five degree angle. “He’s down, Nounou?” he asked the leader.  
  
“Ouais,” Nounou said proudly. “He went down like OM usually does!” His friends laughed and chanted “Ici, ici, c’est Paris; Fuck l’OM!” Pierre and Ahmad sniggered and joined in the anti-Marseille taunt.  
  
The Doctor emerged from behind Claire and Ahmad and pushed through the crowd, his obsidian eyes dark with icy fury. He leant over the man’s body. An inhuman growl tore from his throat as he viciously kicked the Raincoat Man several times. Nounou and two men behind him stepped forward immediately and pulled him away from the crumpled figure on the street.    
  
“Let’s get the Secret Agent Man into the apartment. Quickly before the police can get him,” murmured Olivier, eyeing the restrained Doctor. Six people from the crowd picked up the body and carried him quickly and silently into the building. Olivier looked up to the irritated and curious onlookers from several floors above them. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” he briefly flashed his ID, “this is an anti-terrorism measure. Sorry to have disturbed you.” The Parisians, sceptical, returned to their flats, silently avowing that the mayor would hear of the ruckus. He turned to the Doctor, who still raged at the spot where Raincoat Man fell. “It worked, whatever you did. It’s over, Doctor.”  
  
“I sent a sonic pulse from my screwdriver to his phone through the hacked line. Normally, you hear a buzzing from the screwdriver, but when amplified, it causes disorientation in humans,” his voice cracked.    
  
“Is he dead, Doctor?” whispered Claire.   
  
James gnashed his teeth. “I wish the bloody bastard were. He’s unconscious.”  
  
Olivier made a gesture to Nounou, who in turn nodded at the others. “Doctor, you must hurry. If Monsieur Doe here is indeed CIA, others, possibly even John O’Reilly, will soon follow.” A minute later, a black hybrid resembling undercover cars used by the French police pulled up next to them. Nounou opened the driver’s side door for the Doctor. “Get in. You have the coordinates. You as well,” he said to the young Infinity members. Reluctantly, the Doctor and his charge — cat included — slipped inside the vehicle and drove off down the street.   
  
Once the vehicle disappeared from view, Olivier gestured to Nounou. There was work to be done.


	26. Sur la route

**Sur la route**

 

Brother, sister and cat carrier sat huddled together in the back seat, Ahmad in the passenger seat, as the Doctor drove down the périphérique. The part-Time Lord attempted vainly to clear his mind from the turbulent emotions that triggered his embarrassing loss of control. The half-alien was emotionally and physically exhausted from this accidental adventure. Of his many escapades over the course of nearly a millennium, this one ranked among the most bizarre: he joined a Torchwood away-team, watched feebly as his soul mate fell in love with someone else, was kidnapped by Pete's chauffeur and his French fan club of sorts and was now driving said-kidnappers to safety. Moreover, it led to an unpleasant self-discovery. Clearly, this incarnation of the Doctor was not only more impulsive than his previous body, but he was protective of the people he loved to the point of violence. Was it guilt that motivated this vigilance? Was it blood, anger and revenge? James was frightened by the seconds-long descent into darkness; when he was fully Gallifreyan, after the sorrowful loss of his granddaughter to her love for David, James made sure that he never grew too attached to any of his companions. They became wary of running, died on a mission or left him to forge their own paths. But Rose was different; she was taken from him, only to find her way back to his dying tenth incarnation that literally split into two versions of the man she loved, one of whom abandoned her on Dårlig Ulv Stranden, the other struggled to find his place in this new universe. But he fought to return to her, sacrificing millions of Daleks in the process.  
  
 _You cut my hand off,_  he had said to the Sycorax leader.  _And now I know what sort of man I am. This hand…is a fighting hand!  
  
Was it he who was the fighting hand or was it the Other?_  
  
He was the inept hand, the weakness in the Doctor's Lister's tubercle.  
  
No wonder everyone avoided him; he would, too. It was just as well that he resigned from Torchwood.  
  
The car merged onto the A1 to the northeast. Luckily, the motorway system in Europe remained the same in both universes; the Doctor did not believe he could live down yet another driving cock-up.  
  
 _Twelve months instead of twelve hours._  
  
The sultry, teasing voice and teeth-touched smile in his mind caused his lungs to cry out in thirst and his heart to moan from starvation. Rose. James knew reaching out to her whilst driving was unwise, but he had to know that she was safe, even if it was not with him. The email attachment courtesy of the Americans poisoned his heart and mind with worry. He weighed the respective dangers and decided that safe driving and peace of mind were more important. Reducing the vehicle's speed and careful of traffic around him, the Doctor relaxed his mind and, like a lover's caress, reached out to Rose's essence. Unlike before, he would not walk through doors without permission.  
  
Silence and darkness.  
  
The Doctor gnashed his teeth and tried again to touch her mind. Darkness expanded from a nearby origin to his frontal lobes. He felt momentarily disoriented, as if walking into a shadowy forest. Wherever she was, he was moving toward her. But it was better to keep his distance. The world needed Rose Tyler, not him. A chill entered his bones; Gallifreyans were rarely affected by cold — even half-Gallifreyans — at these temperatures. Something tugged at his mind — he must find her. The point was always for her to be happy and alive. James accelerated toward the airport, which was fifteen minutes northeast of their position.  
  


***

  
  
Rose Tyler arrived at the airport roughly two hours after she left the hospital and one hour before the Vitex zeppelin was scheduled to depart. Owning a zeppelin had its perks; she did not have to rush through dreadful Paris traffic to stand in a busy security line and, in turn, board an overbooked flight that had a seventy per cent chance, or less, of leaving on schedule. Since passing through private security took all of five to ten minutes, Rose decided to peruse the shops before take-off. It felt occasionally odd, as a former estate chav from Peckham, to shop at Givenchy and Hermès without rude looks from the salespeople, but she liked the newly found respect. Peckham brats understood early on that money equalled access.  
  
As she wandered from shop to shop and coffee shop to bookstore in search of a present for Tony, she attempted to distract herself from the headache that had been brewing inside her head since she left the hospital. Karl Björnstjerna, on the surface, seemed like an organised, level-minded man; yet his behaviour during her visit unnerved her for an inexplicable reason, as though he crept and took residence within the privacy of her mind. Had they not discovered the body of Linus Magnussen, she would have concluded that Björnstjerna was directly involved in the embassy bombing. However, her father made it crystal clear that the case was no longer her concern. Rather, she had to carry on, help her mum with the upcoming Vitex Christmas Ball approximately a week in the future and give a moving speech on the importance of charity and giving in a time of need. Normally, Rose volunteered wholeheartedly for the latter responsibility; growing up with second-hand clothes and failing to make rent each week reminded her how privileged she now was and how many other Londoners were still leading lives of quiet desperation. This year, however, she had sacrificed so much for so very little. No Doctor, no satisfactory finish at Torchwood and no closure with the current Doctor. Even John seemed miles away; like Jake, he could not trust her judgement, despite all she had done to save the world. Her anger was palpable, thick and tangy on her tongue. Ignoring the headache pounding against her temples, she entered the next bookstore in the kiosk; perhaps they had a last copy of the Petit Prince or Astérix.  
  


***

  
  
The black hybrid left the motorway at the exit for Roissy. Pierre and Claire looked out of their windows in confusion whilst Ahmad turned his head angrily to the Doctor.  
  
"You've left the motorway, Doctor. The Patron specifically gave us instructions to drive straight to the coordinates. No stopping," the young man growled.  
  
"Yes, Doctor, what are we doing at the airport? We must drive," said Claire. Pierre played with the cat to distract the animal from the humans' distress.  
  
Never taking his eyes off the road and changing lanes in preparation to juncture at the "Arrivals" exit for Terminal 1, he spoke, "Rose is at the airport. I can't leave her." Muttering irritably under his breath about the bloody French lorries, he followed the "dépose minute" signage.  
  
"Doctor, we have no fucking time! Security has been tightened at the airport, so we'll be sighted immediately! Get back on the autoroute!" ordered Ahmad.  
  
Pierre put a hand on Ahmad's shoulder and tried diplomacy rather than force. "Doctor, would you please explain why we're here? I would assume Rose is Rose Tyler and can be looked after by her father, yes?"  
  
The Doctor quickly moved into the parking zone and put the car into neutral. "It requires no explanation. We can't leave her. I'm going inside — give me ten minutes." He moved to unbuckle his safety belt when Ahmad cursed under his breath in his native darija.  
  
"Hummr! Idiot! Her father can get her out of France. We have no one but you, idiot!" he yelled at the Doctor.  
  
Before Claire could intervene to calm the irate Moroccan, James Noble's eyes narrowed dangerously with a hint of desperation. "Ana mitzawej," he hissed angrily in Arabic. Ahmad froze in shock and ceased his verbal abuse of the alien sitting next to him. "That's why I can't leave," James added needlessly. Reaching to open the car door, Ahmad stopped him by gently putting his hand on the Doctor's arm.  
  
"I'll go. They'll recognise you. A Moroccan in Paris is, however, unremarkable."  
  
The Gallifreyan studied him for a moment before relenting. "Be back in ten minutes, Ahmad." He stared at the dashboard in concentration and then smiled faintly. "She's probably at the shops."  
  
Rose let out a frustrated breath; all of the children's books must have sold to the Christmas vacationers connecting through bleeding Roissy. Just her luck, she thought. Tony would be disappointed, but he would think nothing of it after a good tickle and a story about aliens and magic from his big sister. Checking her ticket and arranging her passport and Torchwood ID, she proceeded toward private security. Suddenly, she heard a voice behind her, "Rose Tyler!" The blonde spun around to face a young Arab male dressed in a brown leather jacket, green shirt and blue jeans jogging toward her. "Ms Tyler," he addressed her in a Moroccan accent, "please follow me. You can't board the zeppelin."  
  
"Who are you?" demanded the blonde agent, stepping back from the mysterious youth.  
  
He held up his hands and approached her slowly. "You don't know me and you're afraid — it's normal — but we must hurry. The email itinerary you received earlier was a spoofed message. Please," his voice dropped to a soft whisper, glancing up to the security cameras, "the Doctor's waiting."  
  
"The Doctor?" she murmured in surprise. Whilst Rose was still processing how the Doctor found her, she felt her feet in close pursuit of Ahmad away from the security line, out of the automatic doors and toward a black hybrid, where a spectacled Doctor James Noble was sitting anxiously in the driver's seat. Their eyes connected; the Doctor's brown orbs brightened like milk chocolate and her amber irises enlarged and sparkled like firecrackers. Ahmad gently guided her to the front passenger seat. Overnight bag still in hand, Rose slid into the cab and closed the door. Opening the rear passenger-side door, his friends made room in the backseat for a third person, sliding the cat carrier toward Pierre on the other end. Ahmad shut the door and buckled his safety belt. "Shut off your phone, Ms Tyler," said the Moroccan. Rose reached in her bag and turned off the Vitexphone.  
  
"Allons-y!" cried the Doctor. The French rolled their eyes at his noticeable British pronunciation, despite speaking the language perfectly. The cat growled and hissed.  
  
The group spent the next few minutes in terse silence, knowing that, with the heightened security, they could be stopped and arrested at any time. Pierre played with Daph, Ahmad attempted to comfort a green-eyed Claire, who glared at the back of Rose's head the entire time, and the Doctor surreptitiously studied the livid blonde sitting next to him. Resuming their original route on the A1 motorway, he cleared his throat. "So, Rose, let me introduce you to our motorway companions," he said cheerfully.  
  
Rose gazed silently out of the windscreen.  
  
James chewed his lip. "Right. Well, from my side to yours," he grinned at her, tilting his head into her limited view, "we have Pierre Cohen, his sister, Claire…"  
  
"Charmed to meet you," the Frenchwoman interrupted.  
  
"…And Ahmad…Er, I don't know your last name, Ahmad," mumbled the Doctor sheepishly.  
  
"Ahmad El Mahdi," he supplied, sneaking his arm around the irate Claire. "Pleased to meet you, Madame."  
  
The British woman nodded at them politely in the rear-view mirror. "Pleased to meet you all." She refused to shift her eyes in the Doctor's direction.  
  
Ahmad snorted, watching the Doctor bat his long eyelashes at the pretty blonde and slowly brush his hand over hers, which Rose abruptly removed from his immediate vicinity. James chewed on his lip and focussed on the dark motorway. After several more moments of eerie quiet, Rose finally spoke. "So, Ahmad, where are we going and why am I in danger?" she inquired in a detached, professionally neutral tone.  
  
Before the Moroccan could reply, the Doctor interjected frenetically, "Oh, we're just takin' a road trip to Brussels. You know — pissing statues and chocolate! Once we arrive, we'll contact your father and catch a zeppelin back to London." His grin was instantly destroyed by Rose's furious glare.  
  
"I asked Ahmad, Doctor!" she hissed. "You left us, so as far as I'm concerned, you're just the bloody chauffeur! So you can shut it!"  
  
His eyes darkened like an approaching storm. "Well, I'm bloody sorry, Rose Tyler, if I wanted to keep you safe! Someone has to, the way you violate rule number one — never run off — and play with the pretty boy-apes! Besides, I've been busy!" shouted the Doctor.  
  
Rose huffed wolfishly. "Oh, you're unbelievable! I ran off? Thought your sense of history was perfect, Time Lord?! I saved your sorry arse from bein' arrested twice, spent a night in the nick and then found you missing!"  
  
The Doctor growled. "Oh you were so gutted, sweetheart! Tosh! In the past twenty-four hours, Agent Tyler, I've been threatened, kidnapped and bloody chased halfway round Paris!"  
  
"Well," Rose sneered quietly, "if you hadn't done a runner, you wouldn't have keen kidnapped so easily! Oncoming Storm — more like the Oncomin' Run!"  
  
"Actually, Agent Tyler," interrupted Pierre, "that's not entirely accurate. We had been following you around Paris without Torchwood noticing…"  
  
"Shut it!" the Doctor and Rose shouted at the young man in the backseat, still eying one another angrily.  
  
Describing the interaction between the Doctor and Rose as awkward was possibly the greatest understatement in Pete's World's history; the three youths wordlessly observed the two most famous heroes on Earth having a lover's spat. The Doctor exhaled, frustrated at the blonde who had turned to face the window away from him. Ahmad tried not to snicker so loudly that the two quarrellers would hear him, whilst Claire continued to eye the pretty and irritated blonde in the front passenger seat. A howl came from the carrier at Pierre's feet.  
  
"What was that?" asked Rose in a normal tone of voice. "Though I heard a sort of growl." She paused. "And what did you mean, Pierre, when you said you'd been watchin' him?"  
  
Pierre smartly decided to remain quiet. The Doctor rolled his eyes, his voice cracking, "Meet my kidnappers and the real Infinity. The growl came from their evil ball of fur called Daph."  
  
The second growl was deeper and more sinister. Rose turned fully around to the backseat and observed the carrier at Pierre's feet. Pierre slowly adjusted it so that Rose could look at the cat. Daph's eyes were large balls of orange, his folded ears flat on his head and he purred to self-medicate. "Hello, sweetheart. It's okay," she cooed. Gently, she put her finger to one of the holes in the cage. The Scottish Fold put his wet nose to her finger pad and licked. He gazed up at her and meowed pitifully. "Rough day, eh?" she asked the cat. Daph purred as Pierre readjusted the carrier to protect him from motion sickness.  
  
"He's not evil, Doctor, just scared," she concluded.  
  
"So forgiving, so human," the half-alien scoffed.  
  
"I'm not the half-human plonker who got kidnapped by Comic Con and a cat! Let me guess — the cat was the gaoler?" The three in the backseat bristled at Rose's swipe, Claire muttering that cow in Verlan.  
  
"Actually, yes!" retorted the Doctor defensively. "Rather, it was…" Ahmad, shaking his head slightly, shot him a warning through the rear-view mirror not to mention Olivier's involvement.  
  
Rose, however, did not hear the Doctor's trailed-off sentence over her intense laughter. A moment later, tears cascaded from her eyes. "You did a runner, only to be kidnapped by a cat! Oh, that is so you, Doctor!" She continued to laugh hysterically.  
  
James started to chuckle, which became full laughter. "I am rather good, aren't I, Rose? Always find the best nibbles and adventures, me!" She nodded, wiping tears from her eyes. He took her hand in his right hand, which this time, she permitted, and smiled contentedly. "That was definitely a smile, Rose Tyler," he said smugly.  
  
Managing to pull herself together, she chewed on her lip, trying to hide the Mona Lisa expression that threatened to appear. "Don't push your luck. I'm glad you're safe."  
  
The three youths sighed in visible relief and the cat settled in for a short nap. The fight was over between the two Britons. The Doctor and Rose held hands in silence for the rest of the car ride to the safe house in Brussels.


	27. Screwed in Brussels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay! Here is the next installment. Mind the lies.

**Screwed in Brussels**

 

John rubbed his face with his left hand whilst Jake, frustrated, eyed the French policemen. "So where the fuck did Magnussen go?" sneered the Manc.  
  


***

  
  
  
"Utter horseshit!" growled John O'Reilly as the two Torchwood agents angrily stomped out of the police precinct. The only functioning security camera revealed a breathing, murderous Linus Magnussen dressing in the pathologist's clothes and walking barefoot out of an armed police station on high alert. "I think we're being played."  
  
Jake Simmonds pulled out a crunched up pack of cigarettes and slid one from the bent carton. Taking out his lighter from the other pocket, he lit and brought it to his lips. A moment later, he exhaled and cast his blue eyes toward the hybrid, lost in thought. "We have a dead body that isn't dead. We have a dead Viking bureaucrat professor that isn't dead. Where would he go?"  
  
John paced nervously in front of Jake. They needed to find Magnussen before his friend found Rose. He checked his watch; less than six hours left on the Raincoat Man's deadline. Focus, John! he chastised himself. "He's a scientist, right? Who's in charge of his mission? Who's his boss?"  
  
Jake shrugged. "He's an academic, so theoretically the University of Copenhagen." He took another drag. "But he doesn't strike me as the leader. I know the Doctor thought he wasn't."  
  
"It explains why no one knew anything at the Pasteur. Somehow, Magnussen obscures his presence to others. How?!"  
  
"I don't know, John. I've never seen anythin' like this, not as a Torchwood agent and not with the Preachers. He could literally be anywhere. Fuckin' hell," he swore around the cigarette.  
  
John suddenly stopped. "If he's not the boss, then his role in the bombing was orchestrated by someone else. Jake," he inhaled deeply, his baritone timber shaking slightly, "the email we received — the itinerary — is a spoof. I was trained in encryption in the Army, so I know British servers and protocols well."  
  
Jake froze and stared hard at the American, allowing the cigarette stub to burn between his yellowed fingers. "Someone's set us up? It wasn't Pete!"  
  
The Ranger held up his hand to stop Jake's defence of his director and allowed the lie to slip freely past his lips. "No. It wasn't Pete. It was Continental in origin, possibly French or Danish."  
  
"So it's Infinity," concluded Jake. "Someone at Torchwood's working for Infinity. Fuck!" he swore, dropping the cigarette on the pavement and scraping the tobacco like paint across the asphalt. "Just what we fuckin' need. A fuckin' mole," he sneered, thinking of his Preacher days hiding from John Lumic's cameras.  
  
"We need to get to Rose before Magnussen does, Jake." The blond-haired Manc looked at the American in panic and quickly fished out his smartphone. Punching the number "2" on his phone, he put the phone to his hear and mumbled, "Damn it, Rose, pick up!" over and over again. John could faintly hear Rose's voice asking the caller to leave a message.  
  
"Fuck!" Jake yelled, futilely dialling again. "We're going to Roissy!" he barked, striding swiftly toward the driver side of the hybrid.  
  
The American moved to intercept the irate Briton. "Out of my way, John! She's your bloody girlfriend!" he seethed.  
  
"We can't leave Paris without Magnussen. He's a dangerous terrorist on the loose. Call Roissy instead — put the airport and the city on alert. There may be another attack coming," reasoned John. Jake eyed him before nodding. He opened the phone app on his smartphone and retrieved the number for Captain Diop. He hurriedly put the phone to his ear and opened the car doors with his left hand. John ran past Jake to the driver side and held up his hands for the keys. Jake tossed them to the American and entered the car on the front passenger side. As his British partner explained the situation to Diop on the other end, John started the engine and sped toward Roissy. Using his memory and above-average night vision, John managed to miss only one turn to the périphérique. He listened to Jake shout that yes, he would hold for the Captain, that there's going to be another bloody attack at Roissy, and impatiently drum his fingers against the car window. Finally, John perceived a feminine Francophone voice on the other end and Jake frantically inform her that Infinity was at the airport and Rose Tyler was missing. Simmonds pressed the speaker button on his phone and positioned it between the passenger and driver seats. "Captain Diop wants to ask you about the email."  
  
"Yes, Captain," said John, watching the road, "I'm here."  
  
"Agent O'Reilly, how do you know that the email came from Infinity?"  
  
"I worked in Encryption and Translation while I was in the Army. I recognised the server — it came from Continental Europe, not Great Britain." He heard a faint scoff from the Frenchwoman.  
  
"Of course — Big Brother's always watching, even his allies."  
  
O'Reilly rolled his eyes silently at the French policewoman. "Believe it or not, Captain, terrorists and John Lumic used to spoof French servers all the time. It's not like you guys have a phenomenal reputation for functioning technology. Just ask New Germany."  
  
Before the exchange could degrade further, Jake interrupted the French and American, "Magnussen's somewhere in Paris. Alive."  
  
"But that's impossible. He exsanguinated. No one could survive his injuries."  
  
"No shit!" Jake yelled in frustration. "And Rose is missing."  
  
They heard the woman frown in confusion. "Agent Tyler did not go to the airport? The last I saw her was this morning at the prefecture."  
  
"We tried to call, but she's not answering. We're on our way to the airport now," replied Jake.  
  
"I'll contact my colleagues at Roissy. Someone saw something, Agent Simmonds."  
  
The two men ran into the main doors of Terminal 1 at Roissy, where they were immediately greeted by members of the French military. "Are you Torchwood agents?" asked the commanding officer standing in front of three men armed with Uzis.  
  
"Yes," began Jake, reaching for his Torchwood badge, "I'm Agent Jake Simmonds and this is Agent John O'Reilly. Torchwood London. We're looking for Agent Rose Tyler. She was to wait for Director Tyler's zeppelin here in Terminal 1."  
  
The man examined Jake's badge and then nodded. "I'm Captain Leclerc. We did not find Ms Tyler, but we did verify the security cameras in the airport. Ms Tyler was indeed here, but she left of her own will." He presented the smartphone with the clear footage to Jake and John. "This youth, we do not yet know his name. Do you know him?" The two men shook their heads. Leclerc continued, "She follows him out of the doors and gets into this car." He zoomed in on the occupants. "Granted this was fifty metres away from the camera, but we do have people inside the vehicle. Do you recognise any of these people?" Jake gasped and John gnashed his teeth. Inside were three youths sitting in the backseat and a brown-haired, spectacled skinny bloke driver.  
  
"Noble!" John hissed in quiet rage. Leclerc peered at the ex-military man in curiosity. Before Jake could stop him, John snarled, "His name is James Noble. An AWOL Torchwood agent."  
  
"Could he be one of the terrorists, Agent O'Reilly?" inquired Leclerc.  
  
"No," interjected Jake, "just deranged. He was released from Necker and disappeared. We'll handle him." Jake glared at John, who swallowed the bitter fury that threatened to escape.  
  
"I'm afraid that is impossible, Agent Simmonds," said Leclerc. "He is our prime suspect for the second cell of Infinity. We managed to capture the number plate of the vehicle in question. We do not yet know, but it's fair to assume that your Agent Noble is heading either to the ferries in Marseille or on the road to Belgium. Once we have the CCTV footage, we shall know for certain."  
  
"This is bollocks!" cried Jake. "He saved both French and Swedish survivors at the bombing. He's no terrorist!"  
  
Leclerc shrugged nonchalantly. "If he is innocent, then he can tell us in person, once we arrest him."  
  
  


***

  
  
  
The Doctor parked the black hybrid on a street near the Parc Marie-José in the Molenbeek quarter of Brussels. The park was considered by Belgians to be among the most fertile and beautiful in the country; a statue of Mahatma Gandhi welcomed visitors and amateur footballers, lush greens and clear ponds were often populated by swans and Kalashnikovs sprouted like flowers at the base of large trees. Like in Universe Prime, Molenbeek had a notorious reputation in Europe for organised crime; the Doctor made sure that his sonic screwdriver was within a moment's grasp and Rose's hand was well protected in his. Ahmad and Pierre moved subtly in front of Claire, who scratched the cat soothingly through the carrier door. Two minutes later, a strong knock from the outside echoed inside the cab. An armed masked man appeared and motioned for the Doctor to lower the driver's side window. Grabbing the sonic in his right hand, he lowered the window with his left.  
  
"Unlock the doors, Doctor. Say nothing," said the man in a Haitian accent. Before he could protest, the vehicle was surrounded by three more masked, heavily armed individuals. The Doctor did as he was told; the men yanked the doors open and dragged his passengers and luggage out of the car. The man gestured with his gun for the Doctor to exit. Fearing their retaliation, the Doctor followed the instruction. One of the men rounded the car, jumped in the vehicle and drove away from the group.  
  
"We have an extra passenger," said one of the men holding Rose. He pulled out his gun and pointed it at her head. Rose closed her eyes in an attempt to camouflage the creeping, cold fear of being murdered on a quiet Brussels street. Ahmad, Pierre, Claire and the Scottish Fold huddled together to vainly protect themselves.  
  
"Doctor, we were told that there were four, not five. Explain who this woman is," the leader demanded.  
  
James's eyes blackened dangerously like an oncoming thunderstorm. "You leave her alone. She's Agent Rose Tyler of Torchwood. She was in danger from the same group that threatened us. Incidentally, she's also Pete Tyler's beloved daughter — the billionaire Pete Tyler — so any rash decision on your part would constitute a crucial mistake," he hissed, taking a step forward to the men. "No rat hole would ever be safe enough for you."  
  
"Rose Tyler?" the men looked at each other and the man slowly lowered his weapon. Rose felt her body being pulled behind the Doctor's as she exhaled a shaky breath. "Apologies, Doctor. But there's an Interpol bulletin out for you. Someone's made you out to be a terrorist. You shouldn't have delayed." A dark grey Volkswagen pulled up next to them. "We're moving you outside of Brussels to Leuven. You will stay there until it is deemed safe to travel by car. The airports are too dangerous to make any trip. The French and Americans will be waiting no doubt."  
  
"The Americans?" interrupted Rose.  
  
"Yeah, your pretty boy set us up," snarled the Doctor. "The email was a spoof and was quite possibly a murder attempt."  
  
Rose shook her head in denial and disbelief. "No, that's not true. John would never do that," she whispered.  
  
The Doctor turned to face her, anger, stress and hurt simmering within the cauldron of his heart. But before he could argue, the men shoved them all into the Volkswagen and closed the doors.  
  
  


***

  
  
  
The group of five entered the dimly-lit and sparsely furnished flat with a table, four chairs, a sofa that folded out into a bed, a kitchenette, a washing machine, a bathroom and one large bed in the bedroom. The leader handed a single set of keys to the Doctor. "Leuven's relatively small, so don't go out except for necessities. There are 500 Euros in bank notes in the top drawer in the kitchenette at your disposal and there's enough bread, cheese and fruit for two days. Do not use telephones or Internet to avoid being detected. Once it is safe, we shall contact you."  
  
"I was told to contact Pete Tyler in order to arrange for Ahmad," explained the Doctor. "I need to use some sort of communication device."  
  
The masked man shrugged. "That's your problem. We didn't anticipate you changing the plan, so we're not responsible."  
  
Before the Doctor could retort, explain to or threaten the man, the masked leader promptly shut the door and exited the flat. Ahmad stared at the floor, trying not to let the internal mantra of worry and rage show on his face. James walked over to Ahmad and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, Ahmad, I'll think of something. You'll not be left behind." Ahmad slapped his hand away and stormed off to the dark solace of the kitchen window. Claire looked daggers at the skinny man and followed the Moroccan. Pierre lifted the cover from the cat carrier and unlocked the door. The lilac-coloured Scottish Fold ran out of his cage, hissed at the Doctor and fled to the space underneath the bed. Rose wrapped her arms around herself and went into the bedroom, vainly flipping the switch to the overhead light that did not work. She opened the window and breathed in the damp Flemish air. A moment later, strong arms encircled her waist and a pair of dry, masculine lips pressed against her blonde crown. Rose neither encouraged him nor pushed him away; James Noble continued to nuzzle her hair, closing his eyes in mixed relief, fear, anger, jealousy and desire. The blonde agent gulped down a sob and a frustrated tear escaped her eye. "I'm going to bed," she announced. As she tried to turn away, the Doctor seized her hand and reeled her back to face him. Rose gazed into his dark eyes that seemed to shine like obsidian in the moonlight. They stayed still, never breaking eye contact, for several minutes. Rose shook her head, tiring of the silent stalemate. "What do you want from me?" she breathed.  
  
The Doctor's fingers reached up and brushed her temple. "I want you safe. I want…" He paused, biting his lip. For the first time in millennia, simple words failed him. The English language seemed woefully unsatisfactory to describe exactly what he felt and what he wanted at that moment and in the future.  
  
"So you left without a word, only to accuse John of trying to kill me? Your friends tonight did a better job of that!" cried Rose.  
  
"Rose, John O'Reilly is not who you think he is. An American man tried to kill those kids and me tonight. Back in Paris. Same regional accent as John. Rocky Mountain Western." The Doctor gripped her shoulders tightly. "I don't know why we were led to Paris, but none of this adds up."  
  
"First," she began, crossing her arms, "just because they may be from the same region in America doesn't prove that they're workin' together. Second, if John O'Reilly wanted me dead, he coulda done me in eight months ago when I was still lookin' for you. Daleks almost shot me and Mickey. Doctor, I know him. He's not like that."  
  
The Donna-Doctor frowned at Rose in dismay. He had not anticipated that she would defend the Sheep-shagger. "And what about me?" he rumbled. "Is my assessment, based on experience, not good enough anymore, Rose Tyler?"  
  
Rose's amber eyes narrowed. "Is mine, Doctor? Was it ever? You," she gestured with her index finger, "left me again. Ought I be thankful that it wasn't on a beach in bloody Norway? I've come to accept it. 'S what you do. You told me a long time ago that you didn't do domestic. I was nineteen, so I didn't listen. Once the TARDIS's grown, you'll leave me behind, just as you did many times before. But I've made a life here. A life with someone who won't leave."  
  
The echo of Rose's last sentence punched James in the gut. "I'll never apologise for keeping you safe, Rose," he whispered. "I've made my choice. If I wanted to leave, I could have remained in Universe Prime with Sarah Jane, with Mickey, with Jack. But I didn't, because of you. I told you that I'd never leave you. I have fulfilled and will continue to fulfil that promise."  
  
Suddenly, a surge of anger consumed the blonde, as though the pits of hell told her what she already had suspected — that the Doctor was, once again, manipulating the story to suit his own point of view. "Speaking of Jack," she sneered, "you told me he was busy savin' the world. You didn't tell me that you'd just left him! Who haven't you abandoned in recent history?"  
  
James flinched at her mention of Jack Harkness. "He's…wrong, Rose. He's a fixed point throughout time and space. But he was wrong before." He took a step into her personal space and cupped her cheek, massaging his thumb into her soft skin and peering down at her with dark eyes. "Always with the pretty boys, you," his voice rasped, tickling her ear. Obsidian irises scanned the creamy silkiness of her throat and designer label-covered bosoms. A gasp involuntarily escaped Rose's lips and a covetous smirk spread across his features. This was not the same Doctor that she remembered, either simultaneously frenetic and inattentive or heroic and recalcitrant. This Doctor was alternatively passive, aggressive, abrasive, impulsive, loud and extremely jealous. A searing, rage-filled image of a younger version of herself laughing with Jack appeared in her mind.  
  
"Doctor, why did you come for me? Is it just to fulfil some silly little fantasy? I'm not that nineteen-year-old girl anymore!" Rose cried. She inhaled, lowering her voice to a scratchy whisper. "I haven't been her in a long time."  
  
"I came because…" he trailed off, studying her neutral expression for any sign of desire, and then murmured so softly that she could barely hear it, "because I love you. You are all I have here."  
  
"Then who's Eileen?" she retorted with a scoff. "Doctor, it's good that you've found others — you do need a hand to hold and you're loved by so many. But have the kindness not to lie to me," she added, running a hand through her long strands of golden hair that sparkled in the moonlight.  
  
How he wanted to worship every inch of her.  
  
James exasperatedly scrubbed his face with his left hand. "Rose, Eileen is not you." He fell silent, willing her to understand what words could not express. Did it need saying? There was a very good reason why she was enough — more than enough, brilliant — but saying it openly would not only risk his very relationship with Rose, but would constitute an admission of guilt on Gallifrey and on Earth, should Pete Tyler ever become aware. Heaven forbid, Jackie Tyler and her right hand become aware, he shuddered. "I swear, she's not who you think she is."  
  
At heart, he knew he was always a thief and a coward.  
  
The Doctor's failure to answer her directly did not go unnoticed by the blonde Londoner, who nodded numbly. "Yeah. If you don't mind, Doctor, I'm tired. Good night."  
  
Daph chose this moment to jump up onto the bed and sit in front of Rose protectively, glaring at the half-alien. James squared his shoulders at the cat and grit his teeth, wordlessly daring it to force him away from his precious girl. He noticed Rose's hand move to scratch Daph's head and his brown eyes made the mistake of eye contact with raw, wounded amber orbs pleading with him to leave. There's never enough time, he thought. "See you in the morning," James finally spoke. Rising from the bed, the Doctor glanced hostilely at Daph and mumbled a cacophonous sound similar to those he uttered on occasion that the TARDIS refused to translate. Daph growled in response and, walking slowly enough to Rose so that James would see, rubbed his medium-length bluish grey tail along her arm. James gnashed his teeth and exited the room. The Infinity youths were already arranged in the sitting room, asleep.  
  
The Doctor's dejection quickly converted into restlessness. He had to make contact with the real Pete Tyler and make this situation right, all without the NSA and the Cowboy knowing. No technology, no telephony. He quietly, though not without frustration, paced the length of the sitting room. He cursed, he brightened, he considered plan after plan, he sagged. James silently cursed his sonic in the most vulgar Gallifreyan he knew and thought long forgotten from his Academy days. A fully functioning sonic screwdriver would solve this problem in no time; it was essentially a mini-transmitter. But a misbehaving sonic as telecommunication device could equally transmit the signal to American and French drones or satellites, even if it did use an extra-terrestrial channel.  
  
James's eyes widened and, like an unknown forty-third Shakespearean academic, he punched the air in victory. There was one signal that the Americans could never break in a thousand lifetimes: a biological Time Lord signal. When the Time Lords were alive, transmitting subspace and even interdimensional messages through telepathy were routine. Though he never had been a proficient telepath, as Koschei always reminded him, his skills were satisfactory enough that he was able to call upon the Time Lords for assistance in his second and fourth regenerations. But all parties in those situations were, more or less, fully Time Lord. James Noble was only part-Time Lord and there were, to his knowledge, no full Time Lords in this universe.  
  
There was, however, one person who could send, receive and interpret such a message and, luckily for him, she worked for Pete Tyler. He sat down on the wooden floor in the lotus-like position that even this part-human regeneration recognised as habit, relaxed his muscles and closed his eyes in total concentration.  
  
What would be the message?  
  
It had to be simple enough for her mostly-human mind to comprehend and correctly convey to Pete Tyler. A song? No; it was too long and imprecise. She would most likely disregard it as an earworm. What could easily and accurately travel through subspace and peak a personal secretary's interest? He grinned after a moment and transmitted to Donna Noble a short series of letters and numbers:  
  
  
  


SOS505304420

  
  
  
  
He could hope that she understood the message. But he had always liked hope.  
  
Doctor James Noble stood from his meditation position, crossed the sitting room with soft footfalls so as not to wake Ahmad who, unlike the two sleeping siblings on the sofa, was curled up uncomfortably on the floor, and gently pushed the bedroom door open to reveal a petite feminine figure tangled in ivory linens on the side furthest away from him. The Scottish Fold was stretched out peacefully behind her. James licked his lips and, as soundlessly as he could manage, reached down to remove his Converses and socks. Then he shrugged off his blazer, leaving on navy blue trousers and a black tee shirt. Without disturbing the covers, the sleeping blonde or that infernal beast of a cat, he laid on the bed next to her, placing his head as near hers as Daph would allow. Daph opened one bright orange eye to scowl at the man facing him and then fell back asleep. Rose's smell of vanilla shampoo and her very essence, indescribable to the most sensitive of connoisseurs, permeated his nostrils and lulled the man who never sleeps to a comfortable contentment. He discovered years ago that Rose Tyler drove away the nightmares.  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
In a distant darkness, a cruel male chuckle echoed throughout the dark shadows of a Paris hospital room. For time travellers and the most advanced beings that he had encountered in a long while, Rose Tyler and James Noble were making this easy — too easy. Time Lords were supposed to be better adversaries than this, he scoffed. A painfully simple move to send the message through subspace, Karl Björnstjerna's thought, but just stupid enough to allow him access to both their minds. Brilliant against humans, but incredibly foolish against extra-terrestrials like him.  
  
The subspace information may prove useful to the dim-witted Americans. It will also expedite the process of assimilating Pete Tyler's daughter and eliminating the threat from Torchwood.  
  
Björnstjerna grinned sadistically. It was time to make his next move and alert the FBI of a grand conspiracy against humanity — the Tylers and the Nobles were, of course, to blame.


	28. Secrets

**Secrets**

 

 _Fuck. One hour left._  
  
The Torchwood Unit had just been given a prostate message and not in a good way. After placing Roissy Airport under heavy surveillance, there was no sign of Linus Magnussen or any known terrorists associated with Infinity. The Americans' and Interpol's all-ports warning for Doctor James Noble, missing Torchwood agent, person of interest in the Paris bombing case and potential kidnapper of Vitex Heiress Rose Marion Tyler, luckily turned up no clues of their whereabouts. That meant that Rose Tyler was alive and in less danger.  
  
James Noble had escaped his Smith and Wesson with a warning. At their next encounter, John O'Reilly swore that he would pull the trigger.  
  
But inasmuch as the Clowndick proved to be a giant pain in the fucking ass, the Ranger had to remain focussed on planning his next move. Since the beginning of this case, John felt off-kilter, as though he were a mere pawn in a grand chess match. Every one of them, including the Clowndick, were pawns except for Linus Magnussen, who worked in the interests of an unknown figure in the background — the black King.  
  
What the hell was Magnussen's angle?  
  
Better yet, what  **was**  Magnussen?  
  
Why Paris? Why them?  
  
John watched from inside the airport as Jake took his sixth smoke break. The cigarettes were a façade of calmness and control. Since the Darkness, if not before, Jake had been frequenting opium parlours to self-medicate. During the past six months, Pete and Rose quietly paid off paparazzi and right-wing conspiracy theorists eager to use Jake's visits to Brixton to stir up trouble for Pete Tyler and Torchwood. He sympathised with the Briton; many of the servicemen and women he knew in Iraq turned to cannabis, alcohol, heroin or other contraband to forget the horrors of war. By his count, Jake Simmonds lost not only seven of his best agents in the construction and operation of the Dimension Cannon, but also Mickey, his work partner of eight years, and his lover and Mickey-duplicate, Rickey. He would soon loose Rose Tyler to Cambridge and as for himself, he had no idea where he would end up after this case was over.  
  
John assumed in hiding, in prison or in a box. Especially given what he was about to do. He pulled out his Vitexphone and opened the text app. In a message addressed to Caesari76, he typed, "Reached home plate. Postgame at six."  
  
He knew that he would not be able to live out his fantasy of permanently relocating to Great Britain for Rose, Jake and Torchwood. But at least he could keep them safe. John whispered a silent prayer that he could have one last night of passion with Rose, if only to leave her with a token of his love and devotion.  
  
  


***

  
  
  
Jake's fingers trembled on the lit cigarette against his lips when he heard his phone ring. Glancing at the screen, the caller identification showed a picture of Director Pete Tyler. Cautiously pressing the green telephone key, he answered, "Yes?"  
  
A concerned Pete Tyler dressed in a traditional black business suit, white Oxford and hideously blue and green striped tie gazed at his second-in-command. "Jake, where are you? The zeppelin was able to reach Paris due to the security restrictions and I tried to phone."  
  
Jake looked around him, eager to avoid eavesdroppers, and murmured, "Arsenal's tulip garden is in bloom already for spring, eh? We'll need an extra set of gardenin' tools for Robin van Persie."  
  
Pete tensed and nodded sagely. He had not heard Jake talk in code since his days with the Preachers when Lumic's Cybermen monitored every known telecommunications channel. "No kidding. Manchester didn't do well the last couple matches. What about Thierry Henri? He's on loan and would like to finish strong."  
  
The younger man shook his head. "No, his striking leg's been injured. It's doubtful that he'll return for the next match."  
  
"That's a shame," exhaled Pete. "There's always Mario Balotelli. It's a risky venture, but maybe we can make the substitution?"  
  
"No," disagreed Jake. "He's talented, but his playing's unpredictable. He interferes with Henri and doesn't bother learnin' the game. He likes the spotlight a little too much. We can use Welbeck, if he wants to stay in Manchester."  
  
"Welbeck's got divided loyalties, mate. He used to play for Manchester City and perhaps still might."  
  
"We've currently no other option," concluded Jake, lighting another cigarette.  
  
Pete leaned back, forming a steeple with his hands, nodding reluctantly. "Alright. Welbeck it is. Do keep me informed of Henri's recovery and I shall see you at the next match. Your ticket shall be sent to you in 36 hours — executive, of course."  
  
"Right, ta. Can't wait." Jake ended the call by pressing the red telephone button. He had his work cut out for him in the twelve (not thirty-six) hours that Pete gave him to evade the French and find the missing agents.  
  
Nothing made sense about the bombing; Jake had been in many missions that would make any rational person question their sense of sanity, but he had experienced nothing like a living corpse, a terrorist group that existed in name only, a spy game so uncharacteristic of the French and a book written in an endangered Native American language with which no seventeenth-century European would have ever come into contact. A book written in stone paper with mathematical gibberish, if the Doctor was correct. At the same time, Jake had to contend with the awkward and, frankly, tiresome love triangle between Rose, John and the Doctor. Mickey was right about the latter: he would inevitably abandon Rose when his fears unravelled and lay exposed to the world. Mickey left Pete's World as a result; he could not watch Rose loose herself again and he did not want to be the third wheel to the bad romance.  
  
Jake swore that he would make her heed Mickey's warning. The Northerner was furious at her for leaving the both of them — he and John — whilst she followed that damned alien bastard to the ends of the Earth. For what? Another Darlig Ulv Stranden? What the hell did she have to prove to him?  
  
  


***

  
  
  
The first rays of sunlight crept past the blinds and into the austere Flemish bedroom. Having trained herself out of her teenaged habit of sleeping in well past half-eight, Rose Tyler woke to a warm, decidedly male body pressed up against her, his arm draped around her waist. The cat had already gone, presumably to the sitting room in search of warmth from the other humans. The lanky body behind her shifted slightly and, with an unconscious cough, tightened his embrace of her. His dry lips felt like rice paper over her well-moisturised porcelain skin. Rose was half-convinced that she was dreaming; the closest that she had ever come to such an intimate embrace with the Doctor had been their hug after escaping the Devil on Krop Tor and the kiss they shared at Darlig Ulv Stranden. The Rose Tyler of the past's heart leapt for joy at the reunion. He was with her and not Lynda (with a y), Madame de Pompadour or Lucy. However, the Rose Tyler of the present's heart thudded dully, as if to remind her that this moment would not last.  
  
It was if she had two separate hearts.  
  
In the years that she had spent in Pete's World without the Doctor, Rose learnt to be a cautious woman. Under the tutelage of Jake, Mickey and her father, she became a good agent, soldier, heiress and philanthropist. Patience and control were vital to success in all of those fields; on the TARDIS, she and the Doctor often acted impulsively, to their detriment, only to restore history at the last moment thanks to the Doctor's daft, last-moment schemes. Patience and self-control led to finding the Doctor in Universe Prime.  
  
Patience and self-control led to her becoming John O'Reilly's lover.  
  
Though reason screamed at her not to indulge in the childish temptation of comparing the two men, she could not fight the completely human urge. This version of the Doctor, James Noble, turned out to be, in a way, everything the Other said he was: impulsive, angry, passionate and overly emotional. Yet if all of these things manifested within this Doctor, would it not stand to reason that they also existed within the Other? Not surprisingly, the original Doctor lied to her on the beach. Instead of outright lying to her, James Noble, on the other hand, lied by omission: over the past five months, he never made any overture to signal interest in her beyond the status quo. At first, she believed that it was because he did not fully know himself. But after the first weeks at her parents' mansion, she reluctantly came to accept that he could not offer her the type of relationship that she craved: equal partners, equal defenders, equal lovers. At Darlig Ulv Stranden, she chose the new new Doctor not simply because of what he said, but because, on the surface, he seemed to understand what the previous Doctor did not: she promised him forever on the basis of being his equal. But like his predecessor, he ran off without her, did not open up to her out of his own fears and questioned her judgement when it came to her boyfriends, despite never having made any attempt to talk to her. Spending his life with her was not the same as sharing his life with her.  
  
John O'Reilly, on the other hand, took pride in being forthright and treating her like any other soldier and agent. She grinned, her tongue touching her teeth, as she recalled some of the shouting matches between them when he first arrived from New York. He called her organisational skills half-assed and dangerous; she called him a typical Yank Neanderthal. After one jump into a war-torn parallel Earth, they were forced to be quarantined; consequently, they had to strip naked and shower together to avoid spreading alien biological contaminants. She shivered as she remembered his not-so-hidden looks of unadulterated lust at her wet, nude body that bordered on veneration. No man had ever gazed at her like that. She also peeked at his well-toned, military shape; if she told the truth, it felt like gazing upon David at the Uffizi. That shower led, in the privacy of her mind and bedroom, to months-worth of erotic and deliciously forbidden fantasies of her, John and the Doctor.  
  
Aboard the TARDIS, like any teenage girl in love, she had regularly fantasised about the Doctor; she even once saw him naked, much to her delight, though purely out of medical necessity. He was lanky, like a runner or a swimmer; athletic, but boyishly boffin.  
  
He was a hybrid of Adam Mitchell and Jack Harkness.  
  
Rose wanted to believe that it was fate, that he was Romeo to her Juliet. Nonetheless, the second of her Doctors embodied a humanoid form whose regeneration process had been a bit dodgy. In the process of changing from the first to the second Doctor, he lost the one trait that attracted her to him — fidelity. Her first Doctor's motto could very well have been carpe diem — seize the present and stay the course. It was John's as well. She wanted to feel singular and special as a woman who loved a strong, brave man, not as an estate chav who was lucky just to have been chosen. John was also from a working-class, military family and suffered from disadvantage in the haves-versus-have-nots of American society. Though he had never disclosed to her that he was one-quarter Ojibwe, the little she knew about American history from her A-Level classes in both universes, there was still rampant discrimination against Native peoples in his country. She observed, when he confessed to Jake, the Doctor and her that he was a native speaker of Ojibwe, the trepidation in his blue eyes, fearing the inevitable rejection from the posh British heiress. But the fact that he stood up to the Doctor, despite the risks, made her fall for him even more. John argued with her, allowed her to investigate on her own and to make her own mistakes and trusted her with his secrets.  
  
He did not simply hand her a house, mortgage, a couple of kids and expect her to be happy.  
  
The Doctor stirred once again and, as though sensing her thoughts, caressed his right arm possessively down her duvet-covered body. His chocolate brown eyes fluttered open, focussing on her and the smile from his dry lips crept reflected as mischievous tinkles in the irises. "Good morning," he mumbled sleepily. Suddenly, he frowned. "Aren't you up rather early, Rose Tyler? As I recall, on board the TARDIS, you'd get rather cross if I woke you before half-nine."  
  
Rose smiled faintly, though it did not quite reach her amber orbs. "Torchwood. I've had to keep regular hours."  
  
Opening his mouth to reply, but only getting as far as a silent 'oh' with his mouth, James sat up from the bed and moved toward the water closet. "Sorry — I'm still not used to having to empty my bladder this regularly. Blimey, you humans are like 20,000-year-olds!" As if deciding at that very moment to accentuate his point, his bum let out an audible squeak.  
  
Rose covered her mouth with the duvet to hide her laughter. "I can't believe it! You just blew off! The Doctor blew off!"  
  
Whilst making his way to the WC, he shot Rose an outraged look that promised revenge upon his return. A few moments later, he returned to the bedroom and gazed irritably upon the petite blonde completely buried in the duvet, still shaking from stifled laughter. Smirking, James dived underneath the covers and, the duvet still blanketing them, pulled her close so that their noses touched. Rose shook slightly, laughter gone, at the new contact. "Pardon me," he whispered in her ear.  
  
"Yeah," she breathed nervously.  
  
He kept his arms around her and observed the way she respired, blinked, licked her lips. For the first time, he realised that, whilst she still wore her silk blouse, she had removed her trousers and her legs were bare. He resisted, with difficulty, the urge to trail his fingers down her soft, toned pink and yellow limbs and cup her perfect, ivory silk-covered bum. He bit his lip to suppress the moan that threatened to escape his throat. James made the decision to shift the conversation to work in order to hide his budding and thoroughly inappropriate arousal. "Whilst we're waiting for help to arrive, let's take another peak at Kepler's book, eh? None of this adds up and I don't think Magnussen's the only one involved in the bombing."  
  
Rose frowned. "I agree with givin' it another go, but we should first focus on gettin' a message to Dad. Surely he's heard from John and Jake by now and even if the CCTV picked us up at Roissy, he doesn't know where we are."  
  
James shook his head, tracing circular patterns on her back with his index finger whilst attempting to ignore her mention of the Sheep-shagger. "I've got a plan. Help's already on the way."  
  
She chewed on her lip and turned away from him in frustration. "Great. Could you share your plan with the rest of us thick apes?" Rose replied sarcastically.  
  
James paused his ministrations and looked down at her buttercream-like skin. He remembered Donna's admonishment about Rose, John or Jake knowing her role as his personal assistant. Though he was reasonably certain, within a standard deviation of 0.04%, that he could trust Pete Tyler, his daughter's loyalties remained divided over her affair (as he now liked to think of it) with the Randy Ranger. He also admitted to himself that he did run away, as Rose so aptly put it, because, in his hurt and jealousy, he thought that they would be better off without him. Yet instead of being relieved, she became even angrier at him. He fared no better away from Rose, missing her smiles and her hand in his. After Canary Wharf, he had carried on without her because she was in another universe with no way back; being without Rose Tyler and knowing that she was in the same universe made him more distraught, reckless and angry than ever. The encounter with the mysterious American in Paris revealed these tendencies toward overreaction and self-destruction. The past few days with Rose Tyler, the first in years, illustrated his true desire not to ever leave her. With his precious girl, he felt secure, assured of his place in the universe, despite leaving her to wait for hours and, on occasion, years. However, the Donna-Doctor knew that keeping secrets from Rose for too long could also force her into an untenable situation at Torchwood and endanger his attempts at reconciliation.  
  
How could he avoid choosing between his best mate and his  _mate_?  
  
"Rose…" he began softly, flicking his eyes to hers in a plea to forgive him. "I can't tell you who I contacted because it could put us all in great danger. But I contacted someone…Someone who may be our only hope to evade capture." The Doctor gripped her hand in his tightly and murmured, "We'll get out of this. I promise you, Ahmad, Pierre, Claire and even that little blue-furred bastard. I'll never let anyone harm you. Ever." Rose quivered at the raw emotion voiced in the last syllables of his vow. As she started to nod, entranced by the gravity and love reflected in his chocolate orbs, an image appeared in her mind of a golden link, coordinates and the name Eileen. Another image followed, an older memory, of the Doctor and Madame de Pompadour sharing intimate thoughts and feelings.  
  
He was touching the  _Belle Marquise's_  temples.  
  
Rose gasped, shifting away from the Doctor. Her insides throbbed in pain. James's mouth opened to call her back, visibly confused at her actions. She froze where she was, realising that he lied to her. But how did she know? Another image appeared in her mind, one of her brief appearance as Bad Wolf.  
  
 _I can see everything…all that is, all that was, all that ever could be.  
  
That's what I see,_ replied her first Doctor, astounded.  
  
Was Eileen this universe's version of Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson, marquise de Pompadour? No, that was impossible; Earth's history was the same in both universes up until 1879, when Queen Victoria's lineage began to die from mysterious causes. No Doctor or Rose Tyler meant that the Werewolf had succeeded in sinking its teeth into the House of Hanover. Like her counterpart in Universe Prime, Madame de Pompadour died from consumption in 1764 after serving as Louis XV's  _maîtresse en titre_  for six years before being retired in 1756. Rose, like Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson, was a favourite of a powerful man; but once she had served her purpose, the Doctor easily replaced the former shop girl with Donna Noble, Martha Jones and potentially many others. Now there was Eileen, who had been elevated to the status as favourite quite possibly from the time he had moved out of the mansion.  
  
 _You mean nothing to him. Return to Torchwood; solve the mystery,_  echoed a shadowy voice inside her head.  _You can see everything. The Doctor is no one._  
  
The blackness settled into her heart like calming moonlight. The Doctor watched her eyes flicker, his mouth rounded in a silent question. He thought that he saw a shadow pass by, but her eyes, dancing with delight and amusement a moment ago, turned detached and impersonal, as if presented with a witness to be questioned. She rolled away from him and slipped out of the bed, searching for and finding her trousers from the previous night. Putting them back on to cover her naked legs, Rose thought through her own agenda. Obviously, the Doctor would not disclose his plan, so she would appeal to his sense of curiosity to translate the book by Kepler. Knowing her father's emergency procedures, he would have given Jake and John anywhere from six to twelve hours to retrieve them in Belgium. If Eileen was as clever as the Doctor believed, the message would reach the Director and they would be rescued within the next six or seven hours. If not, then Rose would take control of the situation and get them out of Belgium.  
  
Even if it meant neutralising the Doctor.  
  
Satisfied, Rose whirled around to face the concerned scrutiny of Doctor James Noble. "Right then, we should study Kepler's notes, yeah?" she asked in a neutral tone.  
  
The Doctor stared into her eyes and then nodded hesitantly. Something was amiss.  
  
  


***

  
  
  
The alarm buzzed, waking the redhead and white cat sleeping on her legs. Grumbling, Donna Noble slapped the snooze button and stretched. Shaun had already left for work, as he was due in court early that morning. Honestly, she did not know why she bothered to keep normal business hours, as she was a soon-to-be-sacked personal assistant for that wanker of a boffin. Even if he was also from Chiswick. But fifteen years as a manager at HC Clements instilled in her a certain routine that gave her a sense of importance.  
  
 _James Noble, Piled Higher and Deeper; first-class honours in Bullshit and More Shit from Oxbridge,_  she thought indignantly. She was really looking forward to sunny, warm skies in New Caledonia with Shaun and now, she had to go into Torchwood One and be let go after giving up her regular salary at HC Clements.  
  
 _Well, you put on airs and graces. What did you think would happen?_  echoed her mum from beyond the grave.  
  
Belle stretched and rubbed up against her human mum, comforting the redhead in her disappointment, embarrassment and distress. Donna smiled faintly and cooed at the cat, picking her up and scratching her pink ears. The last voice she wanted to hear was Sylvia Noble's.  
  
Donna really wanted to hear the rough voice of James Noble, preferably apologising to her and begging on his knees to come back to work for him. A disembodied voice resounded within the walls of her mind, one that bore a resemblance to that bloody wanker of a Spaceman.  
  


_Donna! Remember SOS505304420._

  
  
"Now that's odd," she said to herself. Never before had she dreamt of a series of letters and numbers. Strange worlds, yes; nightmares of nuclear holocaust, certainly; but numbers, surely not! Whilst an undergraduate at the University College London, Donna took several courses in number theory, rings and cryptology and, much to her mother's displeasure, graduated with upper second-class honours in mathematics and management.  
  
Donna loved mathematical puzzles.  
  
Grabbing a pen and an old envelope, Donna wrote down the series of numbers that she heard the Spacetwat repeat. The "SOS" part was obvious — Morse Code for help. Not surprised he'd get himself into trouble; Spaceman better give me a raise after this, she thought. Then there were the numbers 505 304 420. Was it a telephone number? If it came from France, that would mean that the number was based somewhere in southwestern France, either Bordeaux or Toulouse. Reaching for her Vitexphone, the redhead proceeded to dial +33 5 05 30 44 20. After a few rings, an automated voice rattled a message in French. From what she remembered from her rubbish upper-school French, the number was not in service.  
  
"Shit!" she swore. Could it be another number from the Continent — Belgium or the Netherlands? Of all likely numbers in Europe, only one worked; however, it was the fax number for a cultural tourism company based in Bruges.  
  
It could not be a telephone number; so what was it? Donna exhaled sharply. Maybe it was just a dream. It could very well have been, had it not been so…specific. Additionally, the Spaceman was involved, so it had to be truly odd. She stood from her desk and chair and paced the room for several minutes before yelling in frustration, "The hell with it!"  
  
Forty-five minutes later, she was showered, dressed in a navy blue pantsuit with thin red stripes and black tee shirt, and she took some tea and toast for breakfast. She eyed the used envelope with the series of letters and numbers from her employer. For some strange reason, Donna knew it was important and it needed to be solved as soon as possible. The answer had to be simple enough for her to discover. But what was it? Spaceman would not be as daft as to send her lottery ticket numbers, would he? No. The lottery would mean nothing to Torchwood.  
  
Torchwood.  
  
That had to be a clue, thought Donna. Torchwood specialised in alien phenomena and British national defence. So perhaps it was a dossier number? Unfortunately, Director Tyler did not give her clearance to look at case files. Besides, why would a dossier number require a SOS? No; she had to be overthinking it.  
  
Torchwood — numbers — simple message — help.  
  
"Blimey, I'm loosin' it," Donna complained as she picked up her black briefcase and exited her flat to the car. Once a few metres away, Donna pressed the button and opened the driver side of her grey hybrid. Tossing her bag in the passenger seat, she slumped into the car, closed the door, started the engine and pulled away from the curb. She rolled her eyes whilst making turn after turn toward Canary Wharf. "Why couldn't I bloody dream of winning lottery numbers? Why Spaceman's EBE codes? Why me?" Becoming increasingly frustrated, Donna turned on the radio to clear her increasingly erratic mind. For some unfathomable reason, the channel was on children's radio and the Barney song "Find the Numbers in Your House" blared inside the cab:  
  


_Find the numbers in your house,_

Play a little game,

It's so much fun to see: how many numbers you can name.

  
  
"What the hell is this?" yelled Donna. "Bloody American kid crap and ta!" She quickly changed the channel to a London rock station.  
  


_I tried to call you before_

But I lost my nerve.

I tried my imagination

But I was disturbed.

  
  
As "8675309" was chanted over and over again, a forlorn Donna stopped at the traffic signal. "I'm in hell," she mumbled. "Goddammit, Spaceman, why don't you just draw me a bloody map?!" she screamed, pounding at the driving wheel.  
  
Her eyes widened in victory.  
  
Map coordinates!  
  
  


***

  
  
  
Donna Noble ran past the guards at Canary Wharf toward the lift, waving her identification card at the guards. "Sorry, I'm late for an important meeting!" she shouted. Her car would most certainly be visited by the traffic warden, but for the first time in years, Donna found that she did not care. She had solved a riddle, a puzzle that could save Torchwood and the world!  
  
Assuming, of course, that this was not a figment of her imagination.  
  
A few moments later, the lift doors welcomed her to the top floor and Pete Tyler's office. Through the glass doors, Donna noted that the Vitex executive was not yet present. In her excitement, she realised that she had forgotten to verify that the numbers were indeed map coordinates. Stealthily taking out her smartphone like the highly-trained manager that she was, she typed in the numbers 50 53' 04 42' 0, pairing the first four digits to represent latitude north and the last five numbers in pairs to represent longitude. According to Googol Planet, the location corresponded to the city centre of Leuven, Belgium.  
  
Only a few hours drive from Paris.  
  
It was entirely plausible that Doctor James Noble was in Leuven, but Donna had no proof other than an appearance of the Doctor in a rather wizard dream. On one hand, the Doctor was clearly stressed and traumatised the last time she had spoken with him, so something could have occurred. On the other hand, she had only known him for a few days. Dreams between individuals require years of intimate friendship — or so the Mirror claimed. How was she to explain herself to Pete Tyler without sounding like a complete nutter? Luckily, Director Tyler maintained an open door with his employees at Torchwood, so she did not need to waste time arguing for an appointment with an airhead secretary named Lucy. Donna crossed her arms, breathed in and out heavily and paced for twenty minutes before she heard the ding of the lift doors. The balding, tired silhouette of Pete Tyler went out of the silver doors and walked purposefully toward the glass doors of his office. Though he wore a clean, pressed black suit, blue and cream striped tie and white Oxford, the Londoner looked as though he had not slept in days. Moving past her, not noticing her presence, he flashed his key card to enter his office and shut the door. Donna silently cursed until the man inside stopped abruptly and spun to face the redhead standing outside of his office door. His eyes blinked in recognition and he opened the door, moving aside to allow the woman access.  
  
"Ms Noble, please come in," said Pete.  
  
Nervously, Donna dashed into Pete's office and sat down in one of the leather chairs before he could extend his hand in invitation. He paused at the seated woman who was uncharacteristically fidgeting with her well-manicured nails. "Right," he replied, moving to face her at his desk. He sat down and raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Yes, right, Director Tyler. This is quite extraordinary and normally, I don't do this, but…"  
  
"The common definition of extraordinary doesn't quite capture the Doctor," interrupted an amused Pete. Then his face changed from light-hearted to serious. "He's missing. So is my daughter, Ms Noble. Do you…" The wrinkles on his face from years of whistle-blowing, war with Cybermen and Daleks, defending Earth and dealing with the aftermath displayed on his face like scratches on plexiglass. "Please, do you have any information? Any at all?"  
  
"Sir," Donna began, "this is going to sound downright insane, but I think they're in Leuven, Belgium. The Doctor, he...he tried to contact me. He sent me coordinates - 50 53 04 42 0."  
  
Pete nodded. "The French thought he might be in either Belgium or Algeria. And no, I don't believe you're insane. Not at all. This is par for the Doctor. But do tell me, did he send you these coordinates via telecommunications?"  
  
Donna shook her head. "No, he used other means."  
  
Sensing her discomfort at revealing precisely how the Doctor communicated his whereabouts to Donna, the Director held up a hand and said calmly, "I believe you, Donna, and that's all you need say. I'm going to ask that, for your safety, you not repeat this conversation with anyone. Stay off all electronic devices and if possible, leave London with your husband."  
  
"Why?" asked a now alarmed Donna. "Is there some sort of attack comin'? I was here for all of them, unfortunately; didn't miss any."  
  
Pete glanced through the glass of his office, as if expecting someone to barge in at that moment, and replied tersely, "Things are about to get rather heated here at Torchwood, politics being what they are. You're a civilian, so the less involved you are, the better. In the meanwhile," Pete continued, seizing his messenger bag, "do you have a car?"  
  
Donna frowned. "Yeah, why?"  
  
"I'll, of course, reimburse your expenses, but I need to get to my private zeppelin and arrive in Paris as soon as possible. Part of the team is there. Then I'll go straightaway to Leuven for the Doctor and Rose." Pete motioned for her smartphone, which she handed to him; he turned it off and shoved it in the bottom desk drawer. He walked over to a wooden cabinet adjacent to the desk, opened the lock and pulled out two new smartphones. "These have scramblers. Use this one to make any calls." Pete offered a new black one to Donna. "Uh, pay no mind to the bill."  
  
The redhead managed an "oh" before Pete Tyler pushed passed her and out his office, holding the door for her. "Shall we?"  
  
Donna Noble nodding, her lips materialising into a Mona Lisa smile and her eyes dancing brightly. "Oh yeah."


	29. 3-7-77

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief note/warning about this chapter. I'm rating this chapter "M" for adult situations (minor torture/interrogation) and language. There are a few slurs contained within that I personally find offensive, but included because they are entirely in character. The M-section is the first section; the second part returns to the normal Teen-rating.

**3-7-77**

 

Goddamn, his head fucking hurt.  
  
Raincoat Man blinked groggily through his sweaty brown hair to a cold, metallic floor. No, he was not on the floor, but above it. His raincoat had been removed, leaving him in his black sweater and trousers, his hands were tied behind his back and his ankles bore the weight of his 190-centimetre, ninety-kilogramme frame.  
  
This was not the first time Raincoat Man found himself at the mercy of an enemy interrogation. He once had his fingernails ripped out with a small spanner, was water boarded and beaten for hours by Iraqi terrorists near Basra. But he knew that this was merely an introduction to what awaited him.   
  
All of the blood in his body was flowing to his aching head.   
  
“Le Yank-con se réveille,” sneered a voice in French.    
  
“Oh, good,” replied another voice. “Let us get acquainted then.” Olivier Jean-Baptiste and Nounou stepped out from the shadows. Nounou grinned sadistically whilst Olivier grabbed a wooden chair and sat directly in front of the upside-down American. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. “Welcome to Paris, Agent…?” Raincoat Man rolled his eyes at the obvious attempt at identifying him. “Ah, you’ve played this game before. Though you didn’t seem to understand French. It’s such a shame. You Americans are bad at even speaking English, much less other languages. Can’t communicate to save your ass. Would definitely help your foreign policy, you know?”  
  
Raincoat Man shrugged as much as he could hanging upside down. “Took Spanish in high school, but was never really good at it. All I learned from the teacher was  _Buenos dias, muchacho_  and  _¡Chinga tu madre, cabrón!_  from the Mexican kid.”  
  
Olivier smiled thinly and slapped Raincoat Man across the face. “A friendly word of advice: I wouldn’t talk about one’s mother while hanging from a flimsy hook in a basement.”  
  
“I wasn’t much good at listening, either.”  
  
The Haitian shrugged and took another puff of his cigarette. “That much is obvious. But let’s move on. Why are you in Paris?”  
  
Raincoat Man took a breath. “Sightseeing.”  
  
Olivier slapped the man again. “I’ll ask again. Why is the NSA in Paris?”  
  
The American laughed through the sting of the Haitian’s assault. “What makes you certain I’m NSA? Are the Cheese-eaters so fuckin’ retarded that they don’t know who runs what? I’ve read the English-language version of Le Monde, by the way. You assholes seriously didn’t know that Brown was in Rhode Island?”  
  
Nounou rolled his eyes and retreated to the far corner of the room. The American could perceive a faint rattling before the young man returned with a steel bucket covered by a sealed lid. He pushed a button, activating the mechanical hook to raise the American’s position from the ground by approximately a half-metre. Nounou then placed the bucket directly below the American’s head.  
  
“Nounou’s a very good host. Have you eaten? Are you comfortable?” asked Olivier.   
  
“I’m great, thanks,” retorted the American. “The hotel room could use a good cleaning, though.”  
  
“Are you sure? Fine, as you like. But we’ve prepared a special present for you.”  
  
“Christmas isn’t for another two weeks,” snorted Raincoat Man.   
  
Olivier laughed, tapping the bucket. “It’s not exactly the usual French specialty. We had to bring it special from the Amazon.”  
  
“I’m flattered.”  
  
“You should be. We could have used the usual methods — electrocution, hot poker in the rectum, water boarding, Cyber-memory searches. But for the CIA — I have it right this time, I know — we’re deeply honoured. Mister CIA, do you know what  _Phoneutria nigriventer_  is?”  
  
Raincoat Man squinted in confusion. The name did sound familiar, like a distant name to a memory from his numerous travels to the middle of nowhere. “No, sorry, the name escapes me. I haven’t taken Latin since ninth grade.”  
  
The Haitian chuckled, taking the last drag of cigarette before putting it out on the American’s cheek and listening to him wince in pain. “Actually, it comes from Ancient Greek. Phoneutria means murderess. A pet of ours, if you will. I caught her on a trip to Sao Paulo. She was hiding in a grove of bananas after killing two kids with her venom. You might also know her as the Brazilian Wandering Spider.” Olivier unlocked and removed the lid. A large reddish-brown, black-striped spider with long legs and roughly seven centimetres in size sat at the bottom of the bucket. “It’s one of the deadliest spiders known to man. One bite and it releases a neurotoxin that causes intense pain, paralysis and asphyxiation of its victim. Incidentally, it’s also used in studies to develop a treatment for erectile dysfunction.”    
  
Raincoat Man became very quiet as the spider began to dance around the bucket’s base. He had encountered stories of the Brazilian Banana Spider whilst on mission in the Amazon several years ago. No one knew for certain, but perhaps hundreds had died in New South America from the potent venom. The antivenin had just been recently invented and distributed worldwide. He looked into the cold, steely brown eyes of the Haitian; the Raincoat Man had to assume that the man would indeed kill him in one of the most painful and hideous ways imaginable. From years of experience, the American agent was left with one option: provide enough information to stay alive and manipulate his captors.  
  
“Okay, you’ve got your point across. What do you want?” asked the American.    
  
Olivier smiled brightly. “Ah, bon, you’ve come around, Monsieur!” His smile turned quickly into a threatening scowl. “Now answer my fucking question. Why are you in Paris?”  
  
Raincoat Man glanced at the large spider, which began to crawl toward the bucket’s side. “Mind putting our friend on a coffee break?”  
  
“Non, I think not. She’s rather famished. I could call her off if I receive the right information,” hissed Olivier.   
  
The man exhaled. “Fine. I was sent on reconnaissance.”  
  
“Why?” asked Olivier. “What were you looking for?”  
  
“The same thing you were. James Noble.”  
  
The Haitian raised his eyebrow. “Yes, you have my attention. Please continue.”  
  
“A source told me that this Doctor James Noble hacked into our servers, presumably to gather intel for his boss, Pete Tyler. We’ve been watching Tyler now for about four years, ever since that shit went down at Canary Wharf. He’s a fucking war criminal and now you French assholes are protecting him!” shouted Raincoat Man.   
  
Olivier laughed heartily. “Do you expect me to believe that bullshit story? How fast did you concoct that shit? Right after you saw the spider or before you thought about pissing your pants?” He nodded at Nounou, who pressed the button to lower the American toward the hungry spider.   
  
“It’s the truth, goddammit! We’re supposed to be allies, for fuck’s sake!” His head stopped millimetres from the top edge of the bucket. The spider crept toward him.   
  
“Allies?” spat Olivier. “You invade the sovereign borders of your allies and you want to discuss alliances? That’s rich coming from Big Brother. By the way, connard, where in the USA are you from? You change your accent, especially when you’re about to piss yourself.”  
  
A bead of sweat dripped into the bucket and the spider was momentarily distracted by the cold, salty liquid. “What?” gasped the confused American. “Where am I from? Annapolis, in Maryland,” he shouted.    
  
“There’s so much an accent can tell you about a person — place of origin, socioeconomic class, history. I’ve heard people from this area — Maryland, Delaware, Washington DC. You’ve no doubt lived there for a long time. Virginia is, after all, where your central command is. No; the way you drawl your vowels — this is not Maryland. Actually, I did very recently come across a man whose accent is very close to yours. Perhaps you know him? John O’Reilly?”  
  
The man inwardly smiled. The Frenchie just made his fatal move by giving him the opening that he needed to regain control of the situation. “Agent O’Reilly? Oh yeah, we go way back, all the way back to Wyoming,” the American gasped, presenting the appearance of a man starved and desperate to save his life. “It’s too bad that he’s a rogue agent. Sells his services to the highest bidder, in this case, Pete Tyler.”   
  
Olivier jerked the man’s head into the pail and growled, “You lying sack of shit!”  
  
“It’s the fuckin’ truth, man! We hired O’Reilly to spy on Pete Tyler. He’s an Army Ranger and Special Forces, one of the best fuckin’ interrogators we ever had. Literally hung guys by their short and curlies and beggin’ for more at Abu Gharib. Once he was given his honourable discharge, he went to the FBI and we recruited him for the Exchange Programme. He got in with Torchwood and, as an added bonus, started fucking Daddy’s Girl. At least, that’s what we thought. Turns out Tyler paid him very well — just check his bank account.”  
  
“Why?” growled Olivier.   
  
The American observed the spider crawling up the bucket wall, inching closer and closer; he could just see the chestnut-coloured hairs on its large legs and its beady eyes watching him with glee. Of all the ways to die for a man in his business, spider was one of the least appealing.   
  
“Ever wonder how Pete Tyler actually survived multiple assaults from John Lumic and his Cybermen? It wasn’t by accident that he was literally the last technocrat standing. After we defeated the Cybermen, Tyler was the only shareholder on his board left alive; he became CEO of Vitex and Cybus Industries.”  
  
The dark-skinned man rolled his eyes impatiently. “You’re boring me. Everyone in the business knows this. Tell me something I don’t know. Charlotte is equally impatient; she wants her breakfast.” He used a strong right hand to hold the American’s head in the bucket.  
  
Raincoat Man glared briefly at the spider who had moved to a mere two centimetres from reaching his nose. “Fuck, okay!” he yelped, never breaking eye contact with the arachnid. “Okay, you win.   _Arachnophobia: The Reality Version_  doesn’t sound that appealing. Tyler never formally disbanded Cybus Industries. He only made the public think he did. After all, who would want to own a company associated with mass murder? Cybus Industries became Torchwood. Who’s to say that he’s not behind the bombing?”  
  
Nounou tried to quiet the amused snort upon hearing the Raincoat Man’s conspiracy theory on Pete Tyler. The man’s blue eyes darted toward Nounou’s position off to his right. “What’s so funny?”  
  
Olivier sneered, tightening his grip on the man’s head. “My colleague here is only laughing at the lacklustre shit story you just told. Not to mention the spoof email you used to lure the Torchwood team to the airport, presumably to kill them, Agent John Doe?”  
  
The American growled. “I’m not the one who helps terrorists, dumb shit. James Noble’s a threat to global security. Either he’s an Infinity sympathiser or he’s a dirty fucking hippie, Brit-sissy style.”  
  
“So you decided to kill the Vitex heiress to get the hippie?” Olivier wagged a finger. “No, I don’t think so. I’d say you’re afraid the hippie may have found something.”  
  
Olivier smugly noticed the drop of sweat that rolled from the man’s hair into the bullet with the spider. The arachnid bucked, raising its legs as if to strike. “John Doe” froze, terrified of angering the Banana spider. “Yes, I think so. The hippie did find something. Maybe you assholes bombed the Embassy?” The American’s face remained impassive, yet Olivier Jean-Baptiste, also known in certain circles as the skilled interrogator known as The Thinker, perceived the faintest flinch. “Yes, the Americans did indeed bomb the Embassy, using a Linus Magnussen as a front. Was he one of yours?”  
  
John Doe remained silent.   
  
Olivier’s brown eyes rounded in delight, letting up on the American’s head, which tilted as far away as possible from the spider. Charlotte closed in the distance. “Ah, yes. That is why neither the French nor the Swedes recovered the detonator. Perhaps your Agent O’Reilly provided some assistance? Perhaps this isn’t an extra-terrestrial matter at all? Just a ploy to tarnish Director Tyler’s reputation. Your President must be quite terrified of a potential shift of power from the United States to Great Britain. Obviously, you’ve heard rumours that Monsieur Tyler intends to run for President of Great Britain in the next election.”  
  
“Glad I’m not a British citizen,” replied the American, swinging himself against the bucket in an effort to tip it over on the floor. “Electing MI5 seems contrary to a free society.”  
  
Agent Jean-Baptiste raised an eyebrow at the American’s quip, as Nounou moved to steady the American’s upside-down frame. “Then shall we pretend that your former president wasn’t Director of the CIA? But I digress. There’s also the question of a virus.”  
  
Holding the man above the bucket, Nounou allowed Charlotte to climb up the American’s short brown hair. John Doe shivered involuntarily, as the arachnid reached his right cheek. He closed his eyes.   
  
“We’re still waiting,” said the Haitian.   
  
“What virus?” the American asked a moment later, only partially successful at ignoring the touch of hairy legs near his lips.   
  
“The virus that killed Magnussen, CIA Agent Doe."  
  
Raincoat Man paused — as much as he could with a poisonous spider on his face. By this time, he was ninety percent certain that his not French interrogator was highly successful at obtaining information from the palest of clues.   _Could he be the Thinker of Haiti?_  Over the course of a decade in the business, he heard stories — urban legends, really — of the interrogations conducted by the Thinker. Seasoned agents, having spent ten, twenty, thirty years in the spy game, made easy prey for this predator.   
  
No weapons, no scenes of torture, no gore; just skilled conversation and intimidation.    
  
Perhaps he had overplayed his hand. With no trump card left and the large-fanged spider settling in on his cheek, he had to make a decision: tell the truth and cover up the international fallout or hope the US Military takes care of his widow and children back in Wyoming.   
  
“Okay, again, you win. The virus is ours. Sort of. It is extra-terrestrial. After years of fighting the Cybermen and locking them up in the factories, we were looking into biological weapons that could be adaptable to cyborgs. Magnussen approached us with some rock he found in Denmark. We developed a pilot programme, but we had to shut it down, as we couldn’t control it.”  
  
The Haitian shook his head in disgust. “You mean that you subjected innocent people to your science project and they ended up dead as a result. And you claim you’re fighting the Cybermen and defending freedom? Give me one reason why I shouldn’t just turn you over to the League of Nations?”   
  
Charlotte tapped her legs against his cheek and moved her jaws for a bite. “Come on!” shouted the American. “Call the bitch off!” His cry startled the arachnid and, in self-defence, she bit down on his cheek, causing the man to shriek in pain before falling off his body and scurrying away into the opposite corner of the basement room.    
  
“Oh, that’s unfortunate now,” said Olivier in an admonishing voice. “You’ll need the antidote soon if you expect to live. Within the hour, preferably.”  
  
The bite stung like a bullet. John Doe cursed loudly. “Shit! I’ll give you a reason. John O’Reilly. He’s on his way to destroy evidence, including Magnussen’s body. He’s either infected or an accomplice to war crimes — take your pick. The assassination was on him, not Tyler’s bimbo daughter or his faggot second-in-command. Now give me the goddamn antidote!”  
  
Nounou glared in disgust and Olivier shook his head. “Bastard,” muttered the young man. He approached the spider in the corner and tenderly picked her up in his hands. He followed Olivier toward the entrance obscured in the darkness.   
  
John Doe winced in pain as he tried to visually search for them. “Where are you going?”  
  
Olivier spun on him angrily. “We’re leaving you for Interpol to find. The spider was not a Brazilian Wandering Spider, but a harmless tarantula. The bite will be painful for several days, but easily treatable with anti-inflammatories. Enjoy the spotlight as an international terrorist.” He took a purple index card and flicked it at him. The card landed below him on the floor.  
  
Raincoat Man gaped at the two men before screaming in rage, “Fuck you! You’ll pay, fucking Haitian n….!”  
  
Before the American could complete the slur, the door slammed closed, leaving him hanging in solitude and the card that read in bold, black digits  ** _3-7-77_**.  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
Pete Tyler slouched against the large beige leather sofa aboard his corporate zeppelin. Having read and re-read his morning copies of  _The Times, Le Monde GB_  and for variety, the  _Daily Fail._  Despite his status as a dignified businessman and a leader in British national and extra-terrestrial security, Pete enjoyed a spot of trash that the Fail offered to take his mind off the stress of the job.   
  
Times were better now that the Darkness had passed. Britain had entered a so-called “Third Golden Age” of economic and political prosperity that had not seen since Victoria and Elizabeth I. Harriet Jones was beginning her second and last term as President (since 20.7), having been re-elected by a last-slide majority in 2.12. There had been rumours that Pete would run as the Labour Party candidate in 2.17, as President Jones trusted his counsel more than that of her cabinet, the Lower House, the Upper House and the President of the Supreme Court. Several well-known British politicians, Labour and Tory alike, came to call on him after the Darkness, putting “feelers out,” as it were, to see if he would confirm interest in running for office. But Pete was less than enthusiastic about the prospect; given the equally loud whispers of his long-time service in British intelligence among the MPs of the Lower House and British press, he did not want his private life dragged through the mud by having to answer questions about his rise to riches or about the origins of his adult daughter. If not for Torchwood, the 59-year-old industrialist would have retired early and settled down with his wife, daughter and four-year-old son. A quiet life where he could easily provide for his growing family was all he had ever wanted.  
  
Once the Darkness ended and Rose returned, Pete planned to announce his retirement from Vitex and Torchwood. However, Torchwood’s organisation was nearly unsalvageable due to loss of life and post-traumatic stress among current agents. Loss of friends and colleagues had taken its toll on his trusted second-in-command, Jake Simmonds, who had stormed out on the Torchwood psychologist and turned to opium to cope with the pain, guilt and loss. His daughter and third-in-command was thankfully leaving Torchwood to read physics at Cambridge. Though he appreciated her loyalty, intuition and scientific insights, Rose was foolhardy and self-destructive on away missions; her search for the Doctor had cost Torchwood dearly — ten agents alone either died, quit or fell on permanent disability on the Dimension Cannon Project. Whilst she would never admit it openly, he knew Rose dealt with self-recrimination and coped through more work and the occasional disappearance to no-one-knows-where. That left this universe’s Doctor, who was enough like the Other that he would either refuse or act impulsively. Until Ianto Jones returned from New York and John O’Reilly took his rightful place at the FBI, Pete was stuck acting as Director of Torchwood, much to Jackie’s endless displeasure.   
  
He winced at his wife’s daily nagging of  _when the bloody ‘ell he was gonna retire.  
  
Soon_, he hoped.  
  
Hybrid zeppelins, though a bit more ecologically-friendly, were much slower than a normal jet. Instead of an hour from London to Paris, it took more than two hours. Pete checked his watch; hopefully, they would be on the ground soon to receive Jake and Agent O’Reilly and take off to Belgium before the French or Belgians could find the Doctor or Rose. Containing international incidents were among the least pleasant aspects of his job. He began to let out the breath that he was unaware of holding when the videoconferencing screen rang. It was on a secure channel that Pete recognised as from the Haitian Security Agency. He leant over and pressed a button on the sofa’s arm to play the feed.   
  
“Salut, Pete, mon ami,” said Olivier jovially, but his eyes were tired and pained.   
  
“Salut, ça va, Olivier?” Pete greeted the man in French.   
  
“Oh, comme ci, comme ça. I wish this was a courtesy call. Marina says hello, of course. However, we have a mutual problem, as you’ve no doubt followed on the news.”  
  
“Indeed, Olivier. The Americans are up to their usual.”  
  
“Astute as ever, my friend,” replied Olivier affirmatively. “But we’ve found the mole that you suspected was present in Torchwood. How much do you know of the American FBI Agent John O’Reilly?”  
  
Pete chewed on his lip and blinked slowly. He had not been surprised in the least. “He’s an FBI agent with a questionable record. That’s all we know at Torchwood; the Americans weren’t exactly forthcoming with a complete background check. However, he did save the lives of Rose, Jake and Mickey on mission.”  
  
Olivier nodded. “Was he ever at the bombing scene in Paris?”  
  
“Yes, I believe he was,” confirmed Pete, as he settled into the sofa cushions, crossing his ankles.   
  
“And the detonator disappeared?”  
  
Pete stared at the Haitian, his mouth partially open. “Olivier, are you saying that he disposed of the detonator?”  
  
“It is so, Pete. We found his associate — the man tried to kill the Doctor, my family and possibly Jake and your daughter. You know of the spoofed email?” At Pete’s firm nod, Olivier continued, “I dealt with our American friend; he’s tied up at the moment.” Pete’s lips turned up slightly at his friend’s last words. “The man did not tell us much of use, but he did seem to confirm this, as well as CIA involvement in the bombing.”  
  
“Shit,” Pete muttered. “What a bloody mess.”  
  
Olivier leant in toward the camera as if looking directly into the Torchwood Director’s eyes. “Pete, you must find the Doctor and Rose. They are also with Pierre, Claire and Ahmad. They are in grave danger. According to the American, the virus that infected the Professor Magnussen is not extra-terrestrial — at least not entirely. It’s of their development. That’s why they destroyed the Embassy: it’s a cover up. The good professor may have given it to them for a price. Now your Doctor has the evidence to prove our innocence.”  
  
Pete’s eyes became dark. “Don’t worry, Olivier. I’ve already located them. Since the French have issued an arrest warrant for the Doctor and quite possibly Pierre, Claire and Ahmad, I can’t land the zeppelin with them aboard. President Jones owes me a favour — well, several, actually. They won’t be able to extradite them from Britain. So, I’ll retrieve Jake and Agent O’Reilly first and then I’ll fetch Doctor and the others.”   
  
“Thank you, Pete. Once again, I’m in your debt.”  
  
“Non, mon ami, it is I who has been in your debt. Several times, as a matter of fact. We protect each other, yeah?”  
  
Olivier smiled. “But of course. One last thing; this is of a personal matter. While I was interrogating the American agent, he claimed that Rose was…in a relation with Agent O’Reilly. Personally, I observed nothing, but I did notice tension between Agent O’Reilly and the Doctor. I believe it was concerning your daughter.”  
  
Pete avoided the Haitian’s eyes. Unlike the nosy Jackie, he studiously eschewed involving himself in Rose’s love life. The Director supposed that he was a bit spoilt; before and during the Darkness, Rose had been so focussed on learning the maths and physics to return to the Doctor in Universe Prime that dating and relationships were like foreign words to her. At the end of her journey, he did nonetheless remark on the sexual tension between her and the besotted John O’Reilly. After the Doctor returned, Pete assumed, along with Jackie, that Rose would become romantically involved with the half-Gallifreyan. Much to his rare surprise and Jackie’s disappointment, it never came to fruition. By the third month post-Darkness, Pete suspected that Rose was instead in a relationship with Agent O’Reilly based on the small, caressing touches on her lower back and the sly smiles they exchanged at the office. He was careful never to mention it to Jackie, who openly and routinely expressed her dislike of John O’Reilly. At the same time, the Doctor virtually disappeared, isolating himself in his flat, only coming to Torchwood to watch the woman for whom he left an entire universe.   
  
Inasmuch as Pete never fully trusted John, and apparently with good reason, he understood why Rose did not take to this new Doctor. Whilst he was very good at saving the universe, the alien was rubbish at human interaction and expressing himself. The Doctor’s love was never in doubt, but his sincerity and fidelity were flighty at best. As a father, he was relieved when the Doctor sent Rose home with  _himself_ ; as a man, he thought the Doctor was an idiot for not respecting Rose’s ability to choose her own path. For that, Doctor James Noble was paying a high and perhaps just price.   
  
“Pete? Are you there?” asked the concerned Olivier.   
  
He shook himself out of his reverie. “Yes, sorry. Thanks. I’ll deal with Agent O’Reilly, but not right away. We cannot let him know that we’re onto him. But there’s the issue of Magnussen’s body. It’s gone missing. I wonder if O’Reilly has already beaten us.”  
  
“Impossible. He wouldn’t have the time. I shall take care of finding the body. Get everyone out before the Americans regroup.”    
  
Pete could feel the zeppelin making its descent into Paris. “Very well, Olivier. Good luck.”


	30. Paradise Lost

**Paradise Lost**

 

Using some bits of old computer circuitry and inert parts of his sonic screwdriver, the Doctor constructed a rudimentary projector for Rose's USB drive carrying the copied file that he had made before leaving her in Paris. He finished working through part of the maths of Tycho's book, with Kepler's notes, both of which had only served to confuse him further. It was as though someone was intentionally sending the reader - him - on a wild goose chase. Rose rubbed her eyes whilst the Doctor leant back on the bed pillows and tried with all of his Time Lord training not to gape at Rose's silk-covered bosoms or lap up her scent like a fine wine.  
  
The Doctor was, as usual, conflicted. The humany hormones made it hard to confine his mind and body to the simple tasks of analysing Rose's behaviour for subsequent anomalies and Kepler's book of incomprehensible equations and deciding if he wanted toast and tea for breakfast. Pierre, Ahmad, Claire and that blue-furred bastard of a cat were in the sitting room, so propriety was, for the time being, self-imposable. Nonetheless, it had crossed his mind to send the kids out for groceries whilst he locked Rose in the bedroom and showed her how human his new body really was. James did not know whether he liked or hated his new body's perpetual loss of control around Rose or, in the case of the past five months, Rose's image.  
  
 _Blimey, no wonder why human males never get anything done._  
  
Finishing these tasks were of the utmost importance. The Doctor had an unsettling feeling that, based on Rose's odd behaviour a few hours ago, the worst was yet to come. He was nervous, honestly terrified at what lay ahead of them. If his sonic screwdriver was not working, then there was indeed the possibility that Rose was in the early stages of the illness that killed Magnussen. Even with the bit of Donna's DNA that he inherited, the Doctor would fortunately be able to detect fever or physiological symptoms in the blonde. She was, at least presently, physiologically normal. Yet he could not ignore the split-second flash of darkness in her eyes. In order to see any mental anomalies, he would have to do a little Spock. Gallifreyans were touch telepaths, sensitive to physical contact among ancestors (knowing one's great-great-grandparents was common on Gallifrey), parents, siblings, children, descendants and spouses.  
  
The Doctor knew that he was very sensitive to Rose, so sensitive that during the incident at the bombing site, he initiated an intimate bond with the human Rose who, despite her Torchwood psychic training, had zero chance of resisting a mental link from a Time Lord or part-Time Lord. The link was extremely powerful, so much that it bound partners to each other for the duration of one life. Not surprisingly, the renegade Time Lord once again stole a pretty young woman of marriageable age for the purposes of claiming her as his own. The Doctor did not know whether to laugh or castigate himself as a dirty old man. After all, it had been over a millennium — at least — since he had gone through puberty and courtship. James swallowed; he did not like to think of his wife, children and descendants on Gallifrey, especially how they died in fear and agony.  
  
How he pressed a red button and killed them all.  
  
He blinked back hot tears that threatened to escape after centuries of repression. Maybe the darkness in Rose was just the reflection of himself; maybe she had come to understand how unworthy of her love he really was.  
  
James rubbed his eyes under his glasses in a quiet, desperate attempt to camouflage his self-loathing and anxiety. "It could very well be a hoax," said the Doctor, carefully avoiding direct eye contact with an expectant Rose Tyler. "I've gone through this bleedin' book three times and not even the Ojibwe makes sense. There is no continuity. For one thing, it talks about the origins of the World and Nanabush, the First Man. According to this version, at least, Nanabush camps along a river for a night. The waters of the river suddenly rise and flood his campsite, forcing him to seek higher ground. But it keeps flooding to the point where, to save himself from drowning, he manages to build a raft using two logs caught in the current. Animals drown around Nanabush, begging him to save them, but he is unable. Close to death, Nanabush begs the birds to lend him some of the remaining soil to rebuild the land. Though they try, the bits of earth are insufficient and Nanabush clings to a mere shred of hope. Against all odds, a small muskrat brings to him enough sand in his mouth. Nanabush takes the sand and breathes on it; the particles spread across the river and create the World. Then it continues into maths equations that make no sense whatsoever, as though it were Newton trying to make sense of tensor calculus, which was a bit outside of Kepler's, let alone Tycho Brahe's, expertise. He'd just started to play with algorithms. Blimey!"  
  
Rose focussed on the projection on the wall opposite them and nodded, chewing on her lip nervously. "Right."  
  
The Doctor frowned at her less than enthusiastic response. "What is it, Rose?"  
  
"It's a story about creation, yeah? About finding God? The maths is still a bit too advanced for me, but this Calabi-Yau manifold, even though it doesn't follow from the premises made 'ere, is trying to describe this universe."  
  
James cocked an eyebrow. "Rose Tyler, did you take a few classes in supersymmetry whilst I was away?"  
  
The blonde shrugged emotionlessly. Whilst he was 'away.' "Yeah. I was invited by the professors at University College to take a postgraduate course in string theory. I struggled in the maths, but I came out all right."  
  
"Well," the Doctor began, tilting his head, "I didn't much care for maths myself at the Academy. Besides, you're brilliant and string theory's rubbish!"  
  
Her neutral expression changed to open annoyance as she pushed her medium-length blonde hair back from her face. "It wasn't complete rubbish; I used it to find you back in the other universe." Her response caused the Doctor to avoid her gaze and look down at the bedspread in self-recrimination. Rose cleared her throat to break the uncomfortable silence. "Anyway, it appears as though the Ojibwe legends are telling us somethin' in metaphor and the maths isn't sayin' much of anything."  
  
The Doctor frowned. "Do you think there are two narratives? Wait — yes!" He leapt off the bed and faced Rose who stared at him like he had just lost his mind. "That's it, Rose! We were looking for linear narrative where there is none. It's like…a notebook, a scratch pad of stories and notes. Not uncommon for the period. Kepler, Galileo, Newton and Euler all had waste-books. And believe me, if Sir Isaac was anything like the Newton of Universe Prime, his books would give psychologists years' worth of analysis."  
  
Rose shook her head. "Could be, but the maths could be important. It's there. Tycho — or someone with Tycho and Kepler — wrote the book. Obviously, he's interested in the uniformity."  
  
"Maybe it wasn't finished. We've assumed all this time that the book has a beginning and an end. What if the Ojibwe is the finished product and the maths isn't solved yet."  
  
"Like someone's trying to solve a problem. A ghost-writer," concluded Rose.  
  
The Doctor's eyes rounded manically. "Or, Tycho and Kepler are the ghost-writers for our ghost. Exactly! So we have to figure out what the problem is in order to understand the book, or books in this case."  
  
"Makes sense," agreed Rose. "But, Doctor, there's the question of how Kepler or Tycho would even have known about Calabi-Yau manifolds and supersymmetry. From my history books for this universe, Kepler was arguably a better mathematician than Tycho, and he was, at this time, grappling with the orbit of Mars and gravitation." Rose paused, raising her hand, to interrupt his inevitable response. "Wait a tic — remember what John said? That the Ojibwe referred to December, the Long Month?" The Doctor, visibly irritated at the mention of the Sheep-shagger's given name, merely raised his eyebrows in affirmation. "You also said that the book was 14.2 billion years old? But that's relative to the writer, which your sonic would correct for, yeah? Could the author be someone from the future warning us in the past?"  
  
Yelping and jumping in the air, he cried, "Oh, that's brilliant, Rose!" Then James abruptly placed his fingers at his sideburns in consternation. "But why would someone travel from 400 million years in our future to 1600 just to send us in 2013 an enigmatic message? Why not deliver it personally if time travel is possible? And believe me, of all the places to visit, 1600's rather dull in comparison to other time periods."  
  
Rose shrugged. "We've seen this before, where the message is either misunderstood or not understood until the appropriate time. Fixed points, timelines and all."  
  
"Yes, but this is changing the course of history. Calabi-Yau Manifolds and Kepler? Could you imagine what would have happened if Kepler understood and used that knowledge? History as we know it wouldn't be the same. Forget the 'Copernican Revolution' and the Harmony of the Spheres; it would have been the String Revolution hundreds of years too early. Electromagnetic weapons for Napoleon's delight, let alone would Hitler or Stalin have done. You know as well as I that altering a single point in history causes an imbalance of temporal outcomes, to say nothing of the Reapers. Since we don't have the TARDIS to travel back in time and stop whoever it is, we should contain this to avoid causing any further damage to the timeline."  
  
"But, Doctor," interjected Rose, shuddering at the mention of the grotesque creatures that, on a windy day in 1987, had revenged themselves upon the world. "What if this message was intended for us to find? Are we really altering history if the timeline's already determined?"  
  
"Rose, history's a linear and fixed state of events. Well," he cut himself off, tugging at his ear, "approximately linear, at least from our point-of-view from the time stream of human historical events. Temporal balance is rather odd; it's true that other outcomes can and do exist, but some just cannot exist for that particular universe. That's where the Reapers come into it. It's my duty as a Time Lord, even as a part-Time Lord, to protect the correct turn of events."  
  
"Doctor, can you see into the future of this universe?" asked Rose.  
  
James shook his head, brown hair flopping in all directions. "Not precisely, no. Since I'm on the slow path, I cannot know too much about my own time stream, which is now intertwined with everyone else's on this planet. That's why your father couldn't be brought back to life in Universe Prime — he was a man alive on Earth who hadn't been. It's also why I never stayed too long in one place, except on Gallifrey, where everyone's fate was known, more or less."  
  
"Then you don't know for certain that we would be altering the course of events," deadpanned the blonde.  
  
"Kepler doing 11-dimensional maths would no doubt trigger Cloister Bells if we had the TARDIS. It's just not valid!" he shouted defensively.  
  
Rose's temper flared at the Doctor's shout. "Well, at least you're now saying that 'it's not valid' instead of 'that's impossible'! Doctor, if I had a quid for every time you've ever said something's impossible, I'd be wealthier than Dad!" She took a deep breath to keep calm, her chest rising with cool air, drawing the half-human's gaze to her delicious mounds that he suddenly had a need to fondle and massage whilst rasping a lecture on temporal physics in his companion's ear. James bit down viciously on his lower lip to silence the whimper of desire pushing up his throat. Out of sheer frustration, he turned away from his companion.  
  
Rose twisted her torso to face his back and glared at him expectantly. "There's also the question of the virus, Doctor. We can't not solve this and risk countless lives."  
  
The Doctor did not immediately answer. Despite the front of fun that he often presented to his companions aboard the TARDIS, time travel was rarely fun and games. Only the phenomenally naive or the brilliantly insane could safely negotiate space-time without either cocking up entire timelines or succumbing to temptation.  
  
The TARDIS meant terrible responsibility and knowledge.  
  
If only humans knew that the forbidden fruit was neither apple, nor pomegranate, but a sentient transcendental being that happened to take the form of a spaceship.  
  
Suddenly, he was no longer in a small, day lit bedroom with the love of his lives, but in a war-torn Arcadia only lit by laser fire, make-shift lamps and faceless screams. James closed his eyes in a futile attempt to block out memories that threatened to drown him. The morning after in a desert barn, the Doctor was faced with a horrifying choice: save Gallifrey or the Universal Timeline.  
  
 _The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few or the one._  
  
There was a reason why the Doctor hated Star Trek.  _How could Gene Roddenberry even comprehend being the one, let alone write about it?  
  
Press the red button._  
  
James's voice was raw to his ears. "The Earth's population is only 7.4 billion, if we assume one hundred percent fatality; changes to the Universal Timeline could however mean trillions. We can't interfere."  
  
The Briton's mouth fell open in shock. Rose felt her petite frame violently bounce off the mattress as it moved in front of the half-alien. "Are you daft?" she yelled. "Only 7.4 billion? Oh, well, we should be so bloody lucky! And if the virus escapes off planet? Hell, what's another couple billion?"  
  
The Doctor stared blankly at the angry blonde, then squared his shoulders at her. Rose took a step back as his eyes darkened from brown to black. A twinkle flashed in his right iris. "Do you think this is an easy choice, Rose Tyler? I'm faced with these decisions all the time. You like being in command, sweetheart? You like being an officer with Torchwood?" He took a step into her personal space to growl in her ear, "You like feeling the power of taking  _enlisted men_  into your bed and then ordering them into intergalactic battle afterward? Well, you wanted to be among the stars — I hope they're worth it!"  
  
To James Noble's credit, he merely blinked at the sting that exploded within his left cheek a moment later. Rose Tyler was indeed a Prentice woman; her right hand was as good as a DNA sample. Somewhere beyond the Void, he swore that he could hear the laughter of Mickey Smith at him getting into a domestic with Jackie Tyler's daughter.  
  
"Bastard," she mumbled. "When the hell did even one life become expendable? But we're just bloody apes. We don't have feelings," she choked on the last word, tears filling her eyes. "We don't matter." Rose wiped furiously at her eyes. As she began to spin toward the door, a masculine hand seized her wrist with lightning-fast speed and yanked her against the opposite wall. Rose's body bumped the wall with a dull thud and an enraged Time Lord appeared in her view. His nose pressed roughly against hers and his warm breath was centimetres away from her pink lips. His palms kept her back against the white wall.  
  
"Don't you ever  _fucking_  say that again!" he hissed in a voice echoing like cracking glass in the sparse room.  
  
Rose flinched at his use of English profanity and gazed brokenly into the brownish-black swarms that served as eyes. He swallowed audibly, reaching up with his left hand to stoke her blonde locks. She froze in response and allowed his touch, fearful at provoking him further. "I'll think of something, Rose," he murmured, dropping his gaze, inching his head toward the nape of her neck.  
  
"Why do you have to think of something, Doctor?" quietly demanded Rose. "You can't possibly make a decision on your own that affects so many."  
  
His eyes snapped up at hers. "Because I'm a Time Lord, love. I'm the Doctor. I'm the only one who knows. I'm the only one who can know. My life…It's never been glamourous or safe. It  _is_."  
  
"But you're also human, James Noble," she argued, attempting to wiggle away his grip on her right shoulder enough to gesture at his chest. "Your heart belongs to Earth. The metacrisis...You could have been anything — anyone — and stayed that way for the rest of your life. Yet the universe chose you to be human."  
  
"It was an accident," he insisted. "Regeneration has always been dodgy. I stayed the same, except for a bit of biology, per your request. I did it for you. You were there, so you know."  
  
"Did you?" inquired Rose sceptically. "What about Dalek Caan and the Prophesy? If there was a manipulation of the timelines, then your metacrisis regeneration was no accident."  
  
"What's your point?" he snarled.  
  
"You certainly believed in determinism then," replied the blonde evenly.  
  
"Are you saying that I shouldn't have destroyed the Daleks? That should I have just invited them for bloody tea and cakes and diplomatically asked them not to commit universal genocide?" bellowed the Doctor, his eyes once again flashing dangerously and his body pushing against hers.  
  
"No, Doctor. They would've certainly killed us. But perhaps you've always been more human than you'd like to admit," she spoke in the softest of tones.  
  
In a fit of shock, James relaxed his grip on Rose and stared at her in cold terror. "Does that bother you? That I'm part-human?"  
  
Rose scoffed. "I've seen cat nuns and blue aliens. You could have been purple so long as it was you. The truth is, you're bothered by it."  
  
"Then why did you beg me not to change?" he sneered, carefully avoiding her observation.  
  
The woman blinked and looked at a point over his shoulder in dread. The Doctor frowned at the increased heart beat and shallow breaths as if she were attempting in vain to hide her physiological response from him.  
  
"Rose?" he asked in a gentler tone. "Tell me."  
  
Allowing the bitterness and resentment to render her heart to steel, she replied coldly, "Because I knew that your next regeneration would care even less about me than your pretty one did. I came lookin' for you, Doctor. I found a way back even when you said it was impossible." She laughed mirthlessly. "I was a bloody fool. I thought that if I kept my promise to you and stayed with you forever, you'd somehow stop leavin' me. That you'd love me. But the word 'impossible' is the equivalent of piss off in Time Lord, I reckon."  
  
The Doctor shook his head, pulling Rose into an awkward, passive embrace. "No, Rose, that's not true! I gave up two lives just for you. But I'm a broken man. So broken. Why would a brilliant, beautiful woman like you want to spend her life playing assistant to a lonely lunatic?"  
  
"That wasn't your choice to make, Doctor. It's my life!" she cried.  
  
"Yeah, but your life is m…"  
  
"Don't you  _dare,_ " Rose spat in a tone harsher than he had ever heard from the normally kind and forgiving former shop girl. He took a step back from the irate blonde, shaken by the pure rage and pain that emanated from her. Rose snorted and pushed him aside emotionlessly, moving toward the bed to retrieve the USB drive.  
  
"Rose?" he whispered in a small voice.  
  
As she picked up the USB and moved to the door, Rose looked back at the stunned half-alien. "I'm done," she replied icily. "You'll do what you want, Doctor. But I'm Rose Tyler, Torchwood Agent, Defender of the Earth. I won't let you endanger billions of lives for some Time Lord shite that, as you've made quite clear over the years, doesn't affect us apes. I doubt Dad will keep you on at Torchwood, so your conscience will be clear." As she twisted the handle to leave, a male palm above her head slammed the door shut. Rose could feel the lanky alien's hot breath warm her platinum locks.  
  
"Let me go," she yelled.  
  
He said nothing and refused to move.  
  
Rose's heart skipped a beat and she could perceive, despite cold fear spreading throughout her body, the disconnected, yet worried voices of Pierre and Ahmad calling out to them. In the two years that she had travelled with him, she had seen but hints of the Oncoming Storm, let alone been its recipient. She felt him shift, as if he were about to pull away; a split-second decision later, Rose fumbled for the door handle to make her escape only to be pinned by a male torso to white-painted wood. Slender fingers roughly caressed her right side, sliding up from her hip, up her midsection and close to her breast, along her arm, neck and cheek, in the direction of her right temple.  
  
"Doctor? Rose? Is everything okay?" asked the muffled voice of Claire Cohen from the other side of the door.  
  
James flinched as if he were a young man caught engaging in an intimate act.  
  
"Doctor?" whispered a frightened, yet indignant Rose.  
  
Before freeing his companion from her trapped position, he murmured in her right ear, enunciating each word,  _"We're not done, Rose Tyler."_  
  
Shuddering from his utterance, the blonde opened the door to reveal the three concerned faces of Pierre, Claire and Ahmad. They scrutinised the dishevelled appearances of James Noble and Rose Tyler. The Doctor, breathing heavily, wore the same wrinkled clothes as though he had slept in them and sported the faint beginnings of a beard. Rose's hair was wanton and her blouse was faintly askew. Her eyes were amber and alarmed as his were black, incensed and pained.  
  
Though she had been incredibly jealous of Rose, Claire sensed that the beautiful British blonde, in spite of her Torchwood training, was truly terrified of the man-alien behind her. Never taking her eyes off the Doctor, the young French medical student gently wrapped her arms around the older woman and guided her away from the unstable half-alien and into the kitchen. Upset and offended at the gesture, the Doctor took a step forward in an effort to stay close to Rose, but was met by the human wall of Pierre and Ahmad. His eyes narrowed, threatening them without a word. Ahmad returned the stare and hissed in Arabic, "I don't care if she is your wife!"  
  
James Noble blinked and moved away from the protective young men and the doorframe; backing up to the bed, he sat down on the mattress and dropped his head in shame.  
  


***

  
  
Several hours of evading French police was tiring in a body such as Linus Magnussen's. The being that inhabited the sickly Danish academic-terrorist would soon be on the hunt for yet another corporeal form. RNA facilitators could only preserve bodies for a relatively small amount of time and his face would no doubt be recognisable thanks to humans' incessant need for media and entertainment. Having walked the early morning hours, Magnussen found himself on a deserted, graffiti-covered street in Saint-Denis. He gasped in fatigue and weakness; the Dane needed to change bodies much sooner than he had anticipated. But where could he find one that satisfied the requirements?  
  
He sniffed the air and smiled malevolently. The next incarnation would not be long. Following the aroma like a wolf appreciating the smell of an imminent kill, Magnussen dragged his weak body down a series of small French streets and, ten minutes later, found himself at a chained door. Using the little atrion energy that remained in his body, he sent a pulse from his left hand into the lock, causing it to fizz and explode. Coughing up human blood, he managed to remove the chain and enter the structure.  
  
"Help! I'm FBI and I'm being held against my will!" shouted an American male voice upon hearing the creak of the opening door.  
  
Magnussen peered into the darkness and his eyes widened at the sight of the brown-haired American hanging from his ankles. He chuckled as the man mouthed a shocked 'you' at him.  
  
"Well, well, well, what a pleasant surprise. Only this time, you have something I want!"  
  
The Raincoat Man's blue eyes froze as the chill of death passed through him.


	31. Chapter 31: Never Cruel or Cowardly

**Never Cruel or Cowardly**

 

Claire watched Rose quietly at the lonely wooden table in the middle of the ivory linoleum-lined open kitchen. The British blonde stared at nothing with empty and withdrawn amber-coloured eyes.  
  
"You're not what I expected, Agent Tyler," the Frenchwoman's voice echoed throughout the kitchen, interrupting Rose's reverie.  
  
Abruptly, Rose looked up at the Parisian brunette and brushed a few strands of dyed hair from her pale face. "How do you mean? And it's Rose, if you don't mind."  
  
Claire smiled faintly and nodded. "Claire, then, Rose. I meant that I was curious about you because you were the associate of the Doctor. I was even …" she chuckled before continuing, "I was jealous of you because it's obvious that you're close. But no one pays attention to the associate, just the Doctor. He just seems so … human. Just like any other man — arrogant, egotistical, afraid of the unknown. You, on the other hand, are a woman protecting us all. Sorry, I don't know if I'm making myself clear. My English, you know...?" Claire trailed off uncertainly, reaching up to re-arrange her medium-length loose ponytail.  
  
Rose tried to return Claire's smile, though she suspected that it was more of a grimace. "Yeah, I understand. I was nineteen when I met the Doctor. He was so different from any man that I'd ever known. He showed me things, people, civilisations that a girl like me could only dream of. He could motivate people to want more, to believe in more than just themselves or their petty problems. The Doctor saved me; he saved us all. And he did it alone, Claire. Such a lonely man, he was; so much that I never wanted to leave him, ever." She gulped, the lump of emotion triggered pain signals in her throat, and wiped furiously at her eyes. "Sorry," Rose tried to laugh. Claire said nothing, instead willing her to resume. A few seconds later, Rose whispered bitterly, "But after a while, he stopped believin' in me. Maybe he never did. He, uh, he left me, even after he promised that he wouldn't. Then after the Darkness, I found him, despite his best attempts to avoid me. He did come back, only to pretend that I don't exist."  
  
Claire grasped Rose's hand that was resting on the table top. "And you've been alone this entire time?"  
  
The blonde shook her head. "No. There's my family, Jake, who works for my father, and John. John is…" she trailed off, uncertain how much to reveal to the Parisian. "I'm with him," she firmly said. "He waited for me, even when I thought I'd never return."  
  
Pressing her lips nervously, Claire did not reply. Rose was staunchly loyal to the man who may have betrayed them all to the Americans. Choosing to avoid antagonising the British agent, she instead asked whilst gesturing to the bedroom, "What of your argument?"  
  
Rose paused, studying the young Frenchwoman uneasily. Claire and her brother, Pierre, were especially taken with the Doctor's charisma, like she had once been. The inner remnants of the young happy-go-lucky girl from the Powell Estate begged the adult Rose's conscience not to destroy the image of their hero, the lonely alien who so strangely loved the world that he gave life after life to save billions of strangers and their subsequent descendants throughout time. Yet another, more obscure part of her psyche emerged, goading her into telling Claire the truth about the Doctor's darker nature; that he who saves also judges and lords ultimate power over his subordinates. That part of her had grown tired of being merely the Doctor's associate, an accoutrement of lesser, human, female beauty that served as his live, ego-stroking device that functioned where his sonic screwdriver had failed. _She made a life here in this parallel world; she became the success that she always could have been in Universe Prime. Her assessments were no longer inferior to his; even if they had been in the past, it was due to a lack of education, not intelligence. She had always been capable.  
  
Wasn't it her time now?_  
  
"Claire," Rose began, "we have to solve the case and soon, otherwise billions on this planet will die. The Doctor's been compromised, so we have to save ourselves." Before Claire could interrupt, Rose put up her hand. "You're Infinity, yeah?" At Claire's shocked nod, the British agent went on, "Did Kepler or Tycho Brahe mention anything about any visitors from other worlds? Other times?"  
  
"Well, yes, Rose. Haven't you read _The Somnium_ by Kepler?"  
  
An image of a bedridden Karl Björnstjerna reading _The Somnium_ at the Necker Hospital flashed in her mind like a long-forgotten memory. The Minister-Counsellor was connected to this somehow, she reasoned; nothing about this case occurred by chance.  
  
But before she could inquire further about Kepler's book, the apartment building walls and furniture started to vibrate and rattle, as though a zeppelin or other aircraft were making a low approach above or nearby their location. Rose ran to the window and pushed it open, popping her head into the early afternoon sun. A large, grey zeppelin with the Vitex logo on its underbelly floated overhead; the Briton grinned brightly and shouted inside the flat, "Dad's found us!" The bedroom door threw open to reveal a haggard Doctor James Noble and a relieved Pierre and Ahmad. Pierre moved around, searching for the terrified Scottish Fold, as Rose once again tilted herself out of the window to signal to the zeppelin pilot. A moment later, the Vitex zeppelin stopped right above the park across the street, indicating that they should prepare to board immediately. For the very first time, Rose was thankful that the Doctor had met Eileen. All five rushed about the flat to put on shoes and coats and find their luggage. The Doctor brought Rose's bag to her whilst dejectedly slinging his small personal bag over his shoulder. Ahmad picked up the youths' sport bags and guided Claire out the door. Pierre followed soon after with an unhappy, growling Daph in his carrier. Claire tossed him the key to the flat; he locked the door and hid the key underneath the welcome mat. Rose, followed by the Doctor and the youths, ran out of the building, across the street and to the small park where the boarding ladder was waiting. After several minutes of climbing and not looking down, Rose reached the top first; a tired, beaming John O'Reilly held out his hand to guide the blonde agent into the zeppelin. Grinning back, Rose took the hand and allowed him to pull her into a deep kiss. She reluctantly broke the kiss so that they could help the others. Pierre arrived next with the cat carrier handle looped securely over his right arm; Daph's irises encompassed his orange eyes and he cried out plaintively. Rose gently took the cat from Pierre as John pulled him into the zeppelin. Next came Ahmad and Claire, followed lastly by the Doctor, who was not far below them. The blonde agent pressed a yellow button on the side to raise the ladder and let the pilot know that they were ready for take-off. The zeppelin began to ascend as John pulled in Claire. Slender fingers appeared at the edge of the zeppelin and John gazed furiously down to an equally irate James Noble. The Ranger weakly offered his hand to the half-alien, who accepted in kind. As the American helped the Doctor inside, he muttered in his ear, "I should have dropped your fucking sorry ass over Leuven."  
  
The Doctor glared at the American darkly and whispered back calmly, "I know you tried to have the kids and I killed, Yank. You'll pay for that."  
  
John froze at the alien's pronouncement and looked into his blackened eyes. A wind tickled his senses, even though the zeppelin loading door had closed, as if a storm were approaching within the aircraft. Glancing at a confused Rose clutching the cat carrier, he frowned at the enraged alien in front of him. "What the hell are you talking about?"  
  
At that moment, Pete Tyler and Jake Simmonds entered the loading dock. Rose, not taking her eyes off John or the Doctor, handed Daph carefully back to Pierre. Ahmad and Claire looked on the scene with concerned expressions. The Briton moved slowly toward the men in anticipation, with Jake and Pete three steps behind her. James Noble shifted his eyes toward the approaching party and smirked. "Pete Tyler, Jakey Boy! We were just having a truly riveting discussion about the American proclivity toward murder and betrayal. Isn't that right, Agent O'Reilly? How does it feel to be the proud attempted-murderer of four people?"  
  
The Ranger's blue eyes turned ice cold at the Doctor's remarks. "I did no such thing, Noble. And you're one to talk about betrayal. You left your team behind, Rose behind, and all for nothing! You fucking coward!" John shoved the Doctor roughly. The force drove the Doctor back three steps and five or six away from Rose. James curled his lips in disgust whilst he regained his footing. He chuckled ominously, sauntering back to his original position in front of John.  
  
Somewhere from behind him, he heard a disconnected female voice cry "Stop it!" James was however sick of the Sheep-shagger and the American pretty boys. He was angry that he lost Rose and he wanted John to know his rage. The half-Gallifreyan moved to peer down at the slightly shorter man who faced him with equal loathing. "The Daleks used to call me Ka Faraq Gatri — The Bringer of Darkness. I'll bring darkness to you beyond your grave, Mr CIA. Pure and simple," he spat.  
  
John scoffed in shock and disgust, still training his eyes on the Doctor. Clowndick and the French youths apparently had a run in with the Man in the Raincoat. _Figures the stupid son of a bitch would try it,_ he thought grimly. "And you're proud of being a war criminal? Well, what a surprise, Noble. For the record, asshat, I'm FBI, not CIA."  
  
"Same difference, ape. You're Torchwood's mole," replied the Doctor triumphantly.  
  
"Where is this man who attacked you?" interrupted Pete, who moved protectively next to Rose.  
  
Locked in a staring contest with John, James answered, "I don't know. Olivier took care of him while we ran to Belgium."  
  
As Ahmad was about to yell at the Doctor for revealing Olivier's identity and a shaken Rose shouted Olivier's name in surprise, Pete winced. "It's quite alright, Ahmad. Olivier and I are old friends, fellow travellers, if you will." The three youths looked up at Pete quizzically, but said nothing.  
  
"Bollocks, Doctor!" interjected Jake's voice. "This Infinity group sent the spoofed email to all of us, not just you. They were hopin' to kill all of us."  
  
"No, we didn't!" interjected Pierre. "We're Infinity! We were set up by the Americans!"  
  
Several voices then chattered loudly one over another, pleading and arguing their cases. Finally, Pete shouted, "Oi!" All eyes fell on the balding strawberry-blond. "One at a time, eh? Now, Infinity is not behind this attack. It's too convenient and without true motive. Pierre speaks the truth. As for the Americans," he threw a hard look at John, "I would like to know how and why the bomb detonator disappeared."  
  
All eyes shifted from Pete to John, who remained silent and betrayed no emotion. Undoubtedly, Raincoat Man had been captured by Olivier and had already fed them his name. _He always did like to go down as a team,_ John sneered to himself. Upon discovery by the enemy, his training as a Ranger dictated that he say absolutely nothing, not even under torture or threat of execution. The mission was paramount. He was not among enemies — James Noble excepted — but among friends and colleagues. The FBI and the CIA were never his brothers in arms.  
  
What did he have to lose by telling the truth and staying in Great Britain?  
  
His classified mission outside of Boston at the end of the Cyber Wars.  
  
His father and his enhanced veteran benefits.  
  
Rose's life.  
  
His associate at the CIA had already threatened her life once. A failed assassination attempt never stopped a second, successful one.  
  
Once arrested, the Americans would certainly arrange for his return to the United States. He was still an Army Ranger and a FBI agent. Though he might have to serve time in federal prison, at least his father would still have medical care.  
  
John shuddered and, murmuring an apology to his beloved Rose under his breath, turned to face his superior. "I have no explanation, sir." At Pete's stern expression, John added quietly, "But I did not have anything to do with the CIA's attempt on Noble's life. I believe we were all on their hit-list."  
  
At the Doctor's victorious smirk, Pete snapped, "Don't think that you're off the hook, Doctor. Your recklessness could have killed those kids in your care and my daughter!" The colour drained from the half-alien's face and he froze at Pete's cutting observation, ashamed. Taking a deep breath, Pete continued, "So you don't deny that you took the detonator?"  
  
John did not reply, merely watching the reaction of an increasingly confused and agitated Rose Tyler standing next to her father.  
  
In three strides, Jake moved to face John, his blue eyes alight with shock and rage. "What the fuck, mate? You can't be serious! John, tell him! Tell him that you didn't do it!" he shouted. When John did not answer, Jake grabbed him by his tee-shirt. "C'mon, bloody Yank twat! TELL HIM!"  
  
Again, John remained silent, not daring to look his partner in the eye. Jake released the American, shaking his head in denial. As Pete watched cautiously, Rose approached the three men. John remained still and quiet as Jake's fists were balled at his sides, heaving with silent rage, and the Doctor looked on alternatively ashamed and vindicated. "John," she whispered soothingly, "surely you have an explanation for all of this, yeah? 'S not like you to do something for no reason." She reached for his hand, which he allowed her to clasp in both of hers. "Whatever it is, you're not alone. Please!" she pleaded. John blinked quickly and squeezed her hands, willing her to understand.  
  
The Doctor growled jealously at Rose and John. "Rose, stop defending him! For Rassilon's sake, he tried to kill us. He hid evidence and heaven knows what else he's done!"  
  
Rose glanced up at James with heavy amber orbs, still holding John's hand. "And you deserted us. What does that make you, Doctor?"  
  
Before he could respond, Pete called out, "That's quite enough, everyone. Rose, let go of Agent O'Reilly's hand." When Rose shifted to move closer to John, Pete took a step forward toward them. "Now, Rose!" he ordered. She reluctantly slipped her hand from John's, but refused to step away from her lover. Pete nodded at Jake, who took out a pair of titanium handcuffs and walked behind the American. "Agent O'Reilly, I'm going to have to arrest you for perverting the course of justice, espionage and terrorism. You have the right to silence from now through trial and a duty solicitor will be called for you at no charge once we land in London. You'll be taken to Torchwood One where you'll be held until you're processed. Jake, take him to the conference room. Since we have no formal jail on board, that'll have to do for the next two hours."  
  
Jake roughly handcuffed John and pushed him forward, growling in his ear, "Bloody Yank bastard, I hope you rot in a French jail!" With one last, lingering look at Rose, John was removed from the group to his detention centre.  
  
A few silent moments passed before Pete spoke again. "Right. Pierre, Claire and Ahmad, you're welcome to move about the zeppelin freely. There's tea and sandwiches in the main cabin. We shall discuss your immediate future once we arrive. You'll be, of course, staying with my wife and I. But right now, if you'll excuse the three of us," he said, motioning toward the Doctor and Rose. They nodded, picking up the cat carrier and luggage, and proceeded to the main cabin.  
  
Once the youths left, Pete spun on his heel down the corridor, barking a "Follow me, please!" to his daughter, leaving a bewildered Doctor in his path.  
  
  


***

  
  
  
In Rose's experience, it was never a good sign to be summoned to Director Tyler's plush office, either at Torchwood One or aboard one of his corporate zeppelins, and especially alone. With exception of Mickey, she held the current record at Torchwood for the number of times an agent was sent to his office. Pete reached into his small, black refrigerator and pulled out a petite carafe of freshly-squeezed orange juice. He poured himself a glass and offered her a second, which she declined. He took a sip out of the glass whilst watching her stiff posture and wounded eyes. Curling his lips, as if choosing his words, he put down the glass on the black marble desk and quietly said, "How long have you been seeing Agent O'Reilly?"  
  
Like a good soldier, Rose straightened her posture and replied formally, "Three months."  
  
Pete nodded slowly, considering her too direct of an answer. "And in those three months, did you notice anything strange about him? It was rather fortuitous that he knew Ojibwe right when we needed it."  
  
Rose's eyes narrowed in anger. "No, Director, I did not. Had I known, I would have informed Torchwood!"  
  
Pete grimaced, crossing his arms. "Really, Rose? Would you have? Jackie told me how many times you've covered the Doctor's arse in the past. In fact, you covered his arse twice in Paris, leaving John O'Reilly alone to commit these crimes."  
  
"Yes, I would've!" she yelled. "The difference is that I had no reason to doubt him! John saved my arse, so 's not like I thought that he was gonna kill me! I still don't believe it! I don't believe he's guilty! As for the Doctor, he does what he always has done — run — only he needed my help instead of the other way 'round."  
  
Pete stared hard at his parallel daughter, who was glowering at him with a Jackie Tyler-like wrath. There was no biting of the nails, no looking down at her feet and no grinning pleasantries that were her usual tells for lying or obfuscation. Inwardly, he was relieved that she was, in no way, being manipulated by the Americans. However, she was Rose Tyler, Defender of the Multiverse, on a Mission. He exhaled and turned his lips upward in a faint smile. "If there's an explanation for John…"  
  
"I'll find it!" interrupted Rose.  
  
Pete shook his head, stepping to the unfurnished space near the window and adjacent to Rose, and glanced out the windows to blue-grey sky and clouds. "This whole case has been a colossal cock-up from the start. The Americans have been trying to set up Torchwood since 20.9. Afraid that Great Britain in her Golden Age might be a threat to their status as a superpower, I suppose. This whole thing — viruses, bombs, missing bodies — stinks of a hoax. Now we have no evidence and I'm soon to present Torchwood's progress since the Darkness at Number 10. They're gonna shut us down, Rose, turn Alien Affairs over to the bleedin' idiots at UNIT." He peered at her from the corner of his grey eyes, made a thumbs-up with his right hand and said, "You can trust me on this."  
  
Rose swallowed, focussing on a point below her father's obsidian desk. "What are you going to do?"  
  
He laughed mirthlessly. "Dunno, love. But I have no alternative than to let justice do her will. Agent O'Reilly has admitted, albeit in silence, to obstructing our investigation and that of the French police."  
  
Her amber eyes searched for mercy in his grey ones. "You're really gonna let the French have John? Without attempting to prove his innocence?"  
  
"Well, at the moment," Pete started angrily, "I have three kids seeking political asylum who may never be able to return to their country of birth. I have a part-alien, part-human genius that deserted his team and is currently on Interpol's terrorism watch list. I'm responsible for a hundred loyal Torchwood employees who'll no doubt get sacked for Christmas because we're no longer useful to Number 10. And I have to hire more security for the Vitex Christmas Ball and explain to Mrs Jackie Tyler that her only daughter needs a bodyguard to protect her from the bloody CIA!"  
  
"I can take care of myself!" she cried. At Pete's incensed look, the blonde took a deep breath and lowered her head. "I'm sorry, Dad. You're right; there are more people to worry about than just me or John. Just…please let me do it. Help everyone else and I'll take care of finding evidence."  
  
Pete walked slowly to Rose and stood before her. "Rose, the only way Torchwood survives is to hand over O'Reilly. Give the French and the Swedes a terrestrial terrorist. More than likely, the Americans will work a deal and he'll be sent home in a few months or years. In the meanwhile, he'll be safe and so will we."  
  
Rose crossed her arms. "What about the virus?"  
  
"There have been no other cases, no outbreak, so it's safe to say at this point that it's not airborne. Olivier's looking for Magnussen; if he locates him, he'll turn him over to Torchwood since we do have jurisdiction over extra-terrestrial affairs. Then that should be the end of it."  
  
She pressed her lips together. "Give me time to prove John's innocence — 48 hours. Let me make inquiries to Paris and Stockholm. They owe me one."  
  
The Director spun away from her. "No, I'm sorry. The case is closed. Once we land, you're coming home to see your Mum." He stopped to face her sympathetically. "If I find something, I'll let you know."  
  
"Okay, fine," she growled.  
  
Pete studied her reaction and his gut sank at the gleam of defiance that sparkled proudly in her eyes. "You're not going to give this up, are you?" he asked softly.  
  
His daughter stared at him squarely and replied, "I can't! I can no more leave him than I could the Doctor, or Jake!"  
  
"But you can leave your family, Rose? Someone tried to kill you and you're worried about the man who's on the same side as the assassin?"  
  
"Dad, he…I…He waited for me when no one else would! He's been there, for all of us, when the Darkness came and even after the Doctor returned and ran away!"  
  
The Director's eyes swirled indignantly from grey to ice blue. "Right. That's it. Hand in your badge, Agent Tyler."  
  
Rose flinched at her father. "You're sacking me?!" she shrieked in a voice too reminiscent of her mother's.  
  
"Yes," he answered in a clipped tone. "You'll be sent your last pay in two business days. Once you're in London, consider yourself unemployed. You'll no longer have clearance to Torchwood One, Two or Three." Pete sat down at his desk and pretended to search for important papers in the lower right-hand drawer. "That'll be all, Ms Tyler. You're dismissed."  
  
"Yes, sir!" she hissed sarcastically, saluting with two fingers, and stormed out of the Director's office. In the middle of the narrow corridor to the main cabin, she spotted the Doctor who had presumably been waiting for either her or the Director. Upon sighting her angry features, James's face rapidly changed from curious to concerned.  
  
"Rose! Is everything alright?" he asked in a comforting tone, his fingers reaching out to touch her arm.  
  
The rage that had been building since the loading bay finally found a convenient target in a tall, lanky half-alien called Doctor James Noble. "No, everything is not alright, Doctor! Thanks to you, my boyfriend has been arrested on suspicion of terrorism and I've just been sacked from Torchwood. Everything's fine — it's always fine, good, great, bloody excellent! Couldn't be better!"  
  
The Doctor's eyes widened at Rose's angry response. All he could manage in the moment was a gasped "What? Pete sacked you?"  
  
"Yep," she snarled, popping the p. "Pete sacked me for bein' too loyal. If you'll excuse me, Doctor, I have to figure out a way to prove John's innocence before the Americans let him take the fall or worse." He put his back to the wall as Rose pushed past him.  
  
Pete did not look up in greeting when he called the Doctor to enter his office. James stomped down the short distance to the Director's office and marched right up to the middle-aged human seated behind the desk. "Why did you sack Rose, Pete? She did nothing wrong! She saved us all!" he cried.  
  
The Director scanned the Doctor's dishevelled appearance and replied evenly, "That's not your concern, Doctor. Except for the John O'Reilly Affair, which you solved, of course, it's case closed. You'll get your consultant pay and access to the Torchwood Lab Two for your TARDIS, per our agreement. I assume Ms Noble will still be your personal assistant until you leave Earth."  
  
The Doctor's mouth fell open. "Rose, your best, most brilliant agent, your daughter, has been let go and you have American moles here and there! Yeah, I'd say it is my concern!"  
  
Sniffing absently, Pete shrugged and answered, "Former Agent Tyler knew the conditions of working for Torchwood. Actually, she was supposed to be retired once we found you. If there are any new developments, Doctor, Jake will investigate. Rest assured that he's competent."  
  
"But Rose is more competent than Jake! He's good, but not as brilliant as she is!" thundered the Doctor. "You're shooting yourself in the foot, Pete Tyler!"  
  
Leaning back and smoothing his dark suitcoat and striped tie, Pete responded authoritatively, "With all due respect, Doctor, don't tell me how to run my ship. She disobeyed orders and I was left with no other alternative."  
  
"That's not true!" exclaimed the Doctor, shoving his hands in his dirty trouser pockets. "She followed me, even when I left them!" He ran a hand through his greasy hair. "I admit it; I left — she kept the investigation running, even after Agent O'Reilly tried to sabotage it, even after I … ran away."  
  
"That's right," snapped Pete darkly, rising from his black swivel chair. "In order to do her job, she had to disobey my orders and follow you and Agent O'Bloody-Reilly to the ends of Belgium and risk an international incident! With Torchwood's name on it. Nicely done. For all of your 900-fucking years of experience, Doctor, you let an agent with lesser experience — several, in fact — go rogue for everyone in Europe to see because … why? You wanted to solve this case on your own? Another kudos of many for the Great Physician?"  
  
Stunned into silence, James could only make the word "I" with his lips. Pete crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow that he had seen so many times before on the TARDIS. "I wanted to protect them. Punish me, Pete," he said quietly. "Rose doesn't deserve this. I'm to blame."  
  
The Director shook his head irritably at the contrite half-Gallifreyan. "As I said, Doctor, she was a former Torchwood Agent. She knew what she signed up for. You're a consultant, an employee-at-will. Once you've solved the case, you're done. Of course, I may or may not call on you for another mission. But you're on your own, as you've always been; no one depends on you and you don't depend on anyone. You'll surely find work elsewhere until you've the TARDIS." The strawberry-blond removed his suitcoat, draped it over the top of the swivel chair and then walked over to the window. He peered down at the blue of the English Channel that would soon become the earthy brown, yellow and green of southern England. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Doctor, I must prepare for the political shit-storm that shall inevitably come to greet us at the arrival gate."  
  
"Right," the Doctor breathed. "First off, may I borrow a secure line? I'd like to let Donna know that I'm arriving in London."  
  
Ambling back to his desk, he pulled out a Vitexphone with an appropriate scrambler and handed it to the Doctor. "I sent Donna and her husband away from London. Her new number is three on speed dial."  
  
"Ta," said the Doctor. Pete nodded tightly and returned to gazing uncertainly out the window.  
  
  


***

  
  
  
Outside of Pete Tyler's office, James Noble looked down at the phone. For now, Donna was safe; was it even worth contacting her? Perhaps she did not want to be apart of his galactic gaffes. But had she not cared, she would have ignored the message that he transmitted to her and focussed instead on persuading HC Clements to give back her old position.  
  
 _But you're on your own, as you've always been; no one depends on you and you don't depend on anyone._  
  
He was never any good alone, if the past week's events were any indicator. But not only was he rubbish at being alone, his actions of imposing that solitude had moreover caused political and emotional fallout to those closest to him: Rose, Jake, Pete, the three youths and even Donna. His self-loathing had blinded him to the little domestic things that mattered. They needed the Doctor, the Man Who Helps People, the Man Who's Never Cruel or Cowardly. Instead, he ran away from Pete, who brought him his parallel sister, Donna; he ran away from Rose, the woman who saved him from the self-hatred and anguish at losing his home planet; he ran away from Jake, who needed the friend that Mickey once had been; he ran away from the three youths that needed a hero after losing their families to senseless mass murder.  
  
He left Rose behind with an American hired gun, effectively driving her into his arms because he did not act.   
  
No more, the Doctor decided.  
  
He firmly pressed the "3" on the Vitexphone and put it to his right ear. Upon hearing the shrill "Oi, Spaceman, where the living hell have you been?!" of Donna Noble, he exhaled tiredly, as though a weight had been removed from his shoulders.  
  
He would fix this.  
  
He's the Doctor.


	32. Chapter 32: Fikapaus

**Fikapaus**

 

 _“My father said ‘Son, we're lucky in this town,  
It's a beautiful place to be born.  
It just wraps its arms around you,  
Nobody crowds you and nobody goes it alone.  
  
‘Your flag flyin' over the courthouse  
Means certain things are set in stone.  
Who we are, what we'll do and what we won't.’"_  
  
\-- Bruce Springsteen, “Long Walk Home,” Magic, 2007.  
  
Former Agent Rose Tyler stormed angrily past several flight crew toward the main conference room. From a distance, she could see a seething Jake Simmonds standing akimbo over the disgraced John O’Reilly, who was slouched and handcuffed in the chair at the head of the large, rectangular oak conference table. The blond man looked up at Rose with icy blue eyes and approached her in the hallway, out of the prisoner’s range of hearing, shaking his head.   
  
“I already know what you want, Rose, and the answer’s no,” Jake growled.  
  
Rose glared at him evenly. “Goddamn it, Jake, let me talk to him! This will undoubtedly be my last chance. Dad sacked me.”  
  
Jake stared at her pleading amber orbs for a few moments before relenting. “Fine,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’ve got five minutes. I’ll be over here.” He shot her a warning glance and then walked to the corridor.   
  
Rose turned toward the scruffy American, who barely acknowledged her presence. “Go home, Rose,” she heard his baritone voice rasp. The blonde shook her head and crossed her arms. “Not until I have my answers. John, I want to help you. Whatever you did, I know you had a reason.”  
  
The sandy blond-haired man chuckled humourlessly, gazing down at his rumpled white Oxford that was partially tucked out of his dark trousers. “Isn’t obstructing justice reason enough, Agent Tyler?” He looked squarely at her with blank blue eyes. She was now talking to Sergeant John O’Reilly in captivity.   
  
Two could play at this game. “So, Agent O’Reilly, you’re freely admitting to perverting justice? Sounds like you’re the sacrificial pawn then. After all, an Army Ranger with your record could and would admit to nothing.” Rose leant closer to him, purposely invading his space, hissing, “Unless you’ve cocked up and grown soft and spineless.” There was no reaction to her obvious challenge; he merely stared straight ahead. “No?” she continued, raising her voice, “So shagging me was just a part of the bargain with whoever you’re workin’ for? An easy Limey fuck before she dies? Lie back and think of England?! Look at me, arsehole!” He refused. “Who tried to kill the Doctor?” She grabbed the lapels of his black blazer and jerked him out of his chair, visibly surprising the American. Yet the Cowboy would never hit a lady. Jake ran over to them and disentangled her fists from the accused, who landed back in his chair with a dull thud.   
  
“Rose,” he murmured soothingly. She looked upon the American angrily. “Sit there then, Yank. When you get your phone call, do tell Washington to bugger off!” Jake tried to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but she slapped it away and stormed out of the conference room, slamming the door behind her. The former Torchwood agent walked numbly down the corridor, wanting nothing more than to sink into the floor and disappear.  
  
This was the first time in five months that she had felt so profoundly angry and uncontrolled. It was better than the numbness that had permeated her mind, body and soul for the past five years. Was there any bloke in the entire bloody universe that didn’t try to control her or her destiny? Rose suddenly felt nothing but rage and resentment toward the Donna-Doctor, whose previous incarnation had abandoned her on that bloody beach to a world of pain, betrayal and insignificance. She thought that she could trust John O’Reilly, but he turned out to be an American double agent with a secret agenda.   
  
Maybe it was best that she was no longer a part of Torchwood or extra-terrestrial affairs. Maybe this was the universe’s way of telling her to move on with her life as best she could.  
  
And then what? Settle? Find a nice bloke, marry him and create more Tylers?   
  
According to her mum, Bev and that little old lady three doors down from her flat, good girls from the estate married a bloke from the neighbourhood and had their first babe by age twenty-one. When she met her first Doctor, all Northern and brooding, he insisted that she leave the domestics outside of the TARDIS. The lack of normalcy and a life of constant running made Rose realise that she didn’t do domestics, either, if given the choice. Rose Tyler left home and became the Defender of the Multiverse. Now, she was no longer from the Powell Estate, she was no longer the Doctor’s companion and she was no longer a Torchwood agent.   
  
So who was Rose Tyler?  
  
Did she exist anymore?  
  
Had Rose Tyler died valiantly in battle?  
  
“Rose…!” breathed a disembodied voice.   
  
The blonde stopped dead in her tracks and turned to the right, where she spied the Doctor talking animatedly on his Vitexphone. She growled upon spotting the last person, next to John O’Reilly, that she wanted to see. Shaking her head, she continued to the private rooms, where she decided to kip until their arrival in London. Nodding at the flight attendant who was carrying tea and sandwiches for the hungry French youths, she politely moved past the middle-aged woman and found an empty twin bed. Rose stretched along the bed, allowed her head to sink gratefully into the white linen-covered pillow and closed her fatigued eyes.   
  
In what seemed like a single moment’s time, Rose blinked to find herself on a sunlit, chilly Northern European beach. She looked down at her designer ensemble that she remembered wearing on board her father’s zeppelin; the winter wind cut through her exposed skin like sharp knives. The British woman shivered and rubbed her arms in a futile attempt to get warm.   
  
Why would I go to a beach without a coat? Rose asked herself. Then she realised that she could not remember arriving on the beach.  
  
 _The beach._  
  
Bloody Norway.  
  
Darlig Ulv Stranden — again.  
  
In a panic, patting her form-fitting trousers for her Vitexphone, she whirled around to find a lanky, brown-haired, blue-eyed man dressed in a fine ivory and lilac suit sitting at a white metal table underneath an ivory beach awning. His posture was relaxed as he smiled faintly and waved her over toward him. “Hello, Rose Tyler. Lovely day for fikapaus outside, no? Come, join me,” he gestured to the large silver pot of coffee and shiny tiers of kanelbullar, mazarinar and open-faced sandwiches.  
  
Rose squinted, still shivering. “Minister, what are you doing here? How come you’re in Norway?”  
  
Karl Björnstjerna shrugged slightly. “Granted, Norway wasn’t on my list of ideal places, but you brought us here when you accepted my invitation. If you would,” he said, once again gesturing to the table. Rose eyed him suspiciously, then walked slowly to the chair facing the Minister and sat down.   
  
Björnstjerna picked up the silver coffee pot and poured rich black liquid into plain white cups. “I know you British prefer afternoon tea; however, there is something to be said of good coffee and pastry. Do try the kanelbulle.”  
  
The blonde chose one of the large cinnamon and cardamom rolls and carefully set it on the same dessert plate next to her coffee. “Ta. How did I get here, Minister? Last I remember, I was on my father’s zeppelin. I haven’t been here in…”  
  
“Five months,” Björnstjerna finished for her. “Bad Wolf Bay, July 2.13. Minutes after you, your mother and the esteemed not-Doctor Noble were abandoned by the real Doctor and his companion. Well, as you remember it.”   
  
Rose leant back in the chair, stunned at the Minister’s explanation. “But you weren’t here. I’ve never seen you before Paris!”  
  
The Swede shook his head in dismay, taking a sip of coffee. “Rose, dreams, like memories, give the appearance of recollection in linear time, but they’re a frozen and often fragmented emotional construction of a single moment. This place now exists, as we currently observe it, only within you.”   
  
“You’re inside my mind,” concluded Rose in a breathless tone.   
  
“Exactly. Fika would be impossible on Vitexphone. Technology does not always improve life or experience.”  
  
“What do you want?” demanded a frightened Rose.   
  
Observing her involuntary shivers, he nodded at her figure. “You must be uncomfortable. Even in July, Bergen can be rather chilly.” Suddenly, Rose found herself wrapped in a white faux fur coat that hugged her petite frame like a warm down blanket.   
  
Stunned, she studied the too-blasé demeanour of the Swedish man. “You’re not human. Who — what — are you?” she gasped.   
  
His blue eyes sparkled like the cold North Sea churning in the distance. “Ah, so impatient, Ms Tyler. And we’re just becoming acquainted. Please do have some pastry. You must be famished.”  
  
Rose crossed her arms defiantly. “Not until you demonstrate that you can be trusted. Answer me: who are you?”  
  
Björnstjerna gingerly sipped his coffee whilst watching her glare at him in true Torchwood fashion. Then he shrugged slightly and set his cup down on its saucer. “Who do you want me to be?” he replied. “As I said, this exists only in your mind. I can be anyone.” Without warning or sound, the Swede morphed into the silhouette of her father. “I can be Director Pete Tyler, Vitex CEO, love. Like you, I deal in securities,” he announced proudly. A moment later, he changed his shape again into a tall, lanky man with sunglasses, dressed in a brown pinstriped suit, blue Oxford, swirly tie and a lighter brown coat. “Oh, I’m sure you recognise this shape. Well, you would. You spent seven, eight years pining after the bloke. But do I have a surprise for you! I just got married to Queen Elizabeth. And, well, she’s no longer the Virgin Queen!”  
  
Tears stung Rose’s eyes at the man’s words. She turned away in an unsuccessful attempt to hide the hurt and pain at seeing him again. “Stop it!” she hissed.  
  
The “Other” morphed back into the tall, middle-aged Swede who reached for his cinnamon roll. “Morphing makes me hungry. As you can tell, I’m no longer young, Rose.” He took a bite and hummed his approval. “Despite their gluttony and pandemic obesity problem, humans do not shy away from the good things in life. I rather like that about them. Pick one’s poison, as it were.” Rose had not shifted from the semi-foetal position away from him. “Really, Rose, don’t be like that. The Doctor was a self-righteous wanker, anyway.” He took a bite and continued after swallowing. “The self-appointed Defender of the Universe. I could at least understand your desire to Defend the Earth — you’re protecting your own people. That is honest work. I have nothing but respect for Torchwood, even if it is childish in its methods. The Doctor, however, killed his own kind and ran away from defending the universe when it suited him. How misanthropic and hypocritical. He never would have loved you. Largely incapable of it, I believe.”  
  
Rose turned to Björnstjerna like a wolf ready to attack, her amber eyes flashing pure anger and rage. “Are you responsible for the bombing? Did you kill the Ambassador?”  
  
The man chuckled. “If you’re asking whether I orchestrated the bombing, the answer is no. But humans afford to me so many advantages.”  
  
“So you took advantage of the situation?” asked Rose sceptically.  
  
The Swede shrugged. “Why not? The Ambassador was uncooperative and the Americans are impulsive idiots. Now,” he gestured at her untouched coffee and roll, “if this is to be an interrogation, Rose, I would insist on you accepting my invitation. Otherwise, I might be … too nervous. Fika should never be rushed. Bad things can happen.”  
  
Reluctantly, she took a sip of the cooled coffee and a small bite of the kanelbulle. Her eyebrows raised slightly as she chewed the pastry. Though she disliked her coffee companion, Rose had to admit that the coffee and cinnamon roll were exquisitely velvety and sweet in her mouth. She took another bite in the pretence of allowing him the control he wanted.   
  
The Swede smiled slightly. “Now, that’s better.” He took another slow sip of coffee. “Back to the matter at hand, I heard you caught the bomber. Some FBI Agent, yes?”  
  
Rose did not reply.   
  
“Yes, I believe his name is John O’Reilly. You were close, or so I hear. I wonder what the Doctor,” he twirled his finger slightly, “not the halfwit, the real one, would think of your relationship with a terrorist. Tsk, tsk, tsk.”  
  
“What do you want, Minister?” she replied in a too-controlled voice.   
  
Björnstjerna’s facial expression turned into one of feigned shock. “I’m just trying to answer your questions, Former Agent Tyler. I’m sorry to hear that the Director dismissed you. Mind, I wouldn’t have made that decision. Tactically, you’re Torchwood’s only asset. Now Britain’s finest are left with an addict, a halfwit and an office staff of untrained interns to solve the case. Perhaps he’ll ask Inspector Lestrade for Mr Holmes’s number.”  
  
“How do you know all of this?” interjected Rose, whose single human heart began to pound and pump adrenalin at the discovery of what she hoped was untrue.  
  
“You,” he replied. “Like it or not, you tell me everything.”  
  
  


***

  
  
Doctor James Noble shivered involuntarily and felt cold fear pull at his mind. He looked at the Vitexphone in his hand. He was 99.9% sure that it was not Donna; the redhead had, in fact, had a go at him for a solid seven minutes, twenty-three seconds for worrying her like that. However, in spite of Pete’s counsel for the Temple-Nobles to leave London straightaway, Donna agreed that the Yank wanker was in dire need of representation. Of course, Donna Noble, former HR at HC Clements, knew the perfect barrister. She and the Doctor agreed to meet at his flat and O’Reilly’s barrister would be sent to Agent O’Reilly upon his arrival and incarceration in Great Britain. The Sheep-shagger situation reminded the Doctor of why Lethbridge-Stewart never liked the bloody Yanks. As the former Scientific Liaison to UNIT in Universe Prime, the Doctor knew what the Americans could do to cover up or, more likely than not, further cock up a botched mission. Evidence would disappear — just as had the detonator — and they would receive a shrug and a “Well, the Soviets…” half-arsed apology or the world press to harass them about UFOs over Scotland. Time was not on their side.   
  
The bitter cold chilled him again.  
  
All of a sudden, he felt the sharp pain of a young woman crying in terror. His dark eyes widened and he pulled at his brownish-red hair with both hands. The Doctor knew that sound anywhere and in any time.   
  
Rose!  
  


***

  
  
Petrified, Rose stared at the man before her. Keep calm and don’t listen to him, Tyler, she chastised herself. Realising Björnstjerna’s ostensible manipulation, she affixed a bored expression and retorted, “That would imply that you can read my thoughts.”  
  
Shaking his head, the Swede took a bite of his cinnamon roll. “Oh come now, Rose, you know I can. Despite your mediocre Torchwood psychic training, your mind is, for the moment, still largely human. So you’re like a transmitter without an off-switch.”  
  
“Whatch’you mean, ‘largely human’?” asked Rose, taking a small sip of coffee. The man merely smirked in response.   
  
Rose frowned. She hated when suspects toyed with her. Yet unlike aliens and humans whom she had interrogated whilst at Torchwood, Karl Björnstjerna hid in plain sight and revealed himself to be an active participant in the game that was being played in Paris. The game that he was playing with her, not with the Doctor or the Director. Sensing her lack of options but to play this elaborate chess game with the Grandmaster, Rose decided to shift her questioning to benefit him.  
  
“So why do you need me? Obviously, you’ve arranged this afternoon tea of sorts to extract information that you can’t get otherwise?” At the Swede’s raised eyebrow, Rose’s confidence surged. “No, that’s not it,” she said, craning her neck toward the man. “It’s not about information — you could get that easily. You need me to do something.”   
  
Björnstjerna smiled and clapped. “Brava, Ms Tyler, though I believe the desire’s mutual. As I said before, my work is in securities and recovery.”  
  
“But if you can read my mind, then you could theoretically control it. So why are we havin’ this conversation?”  
  
“Who says I’m not controlling it?” quipped her interlocutor.   
  
“Then why am I here? Why waste time, Minister?” rebutted Rose.  
  
The Swede slowly smoothed his ivory linen suit and dabbed the corners of his mouth with the white napkin that perfectly matched their surroundings. “It is truly not what you can do for me, but what I can do for you, Rose. I know you’re unhappy with the circumstances that have befallen you.” At the Briton’s silence, he continued calmly. “It’s true.” Abruptly, their surroundings changed from fika on Bad Wolf Bay to an opaque, fifty-first century-era spaceship stinking of stardust, blood, plasma and decayed organic tissue. Preserved like a painting, Rose inhaled anxiously as she noticed Mickey and a younger version of herself, frozen in time, waiting next to a portal for a Doctor who was detained on the other side by an eighteenth-century French maîtresse-en-titre.   
  
“Why did you bring me here?” she murmured.   
  
“To answer your question,” Björnstjerna responded. “This moment shaped you more than any other during your travels with the Doctor. More than when he took your hand at Henrik’s. Do you know why?”  
  
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Rose deadpanned, refusing to look at him.  
  
He turned to her. “None? You’re not a very good liar, Rose. This was the moment when you knew that your precious Doctor, the alien who promised never to leave you behind, would inevitably do so. Not even the very fact that you had saved his life thrice would stop him.”  
  
The older Rose tentatively approached her younger self, studying her statue-like figure as though she were a work of Michelangelo’s. The statue, dressed in a grey tee-shirt and jeans, stared at the portal helplessly as Mickey looked at his ex-girlfriend with a combination of sympathy and pity. “And how does bringing me here put my mind at ease?” she growled.   
  
“He used your naïveté to get what he needed from you. But it was always unrequited, Rose. You see, he’s never been good with his pets, all of whom loved and worshiped him. Yet he’s a fickle being, having nearly left all of them. The few whom he did not abandon either left him or died trying. Now, he’s left you with a problem — an American one.” Suddenly, they were no longer aboard the spaceship, but in a brightly-lit bedroom with pastel-coloured bedding and furnishings. Rose could hear feminine giggling from underneath the baby-blue sheets. A semi-nude John O’Reilly laughed as he attempted to extract the semi-obscured blonde from the bed. The Briton heard herself scream as the American’s large hands ensnared her petite frame. Björnstjerna and Rose watched unobtrusively as the Ranger kissed her neck, mumbling, “Gotcha and good morning, sweet.”  
  
The Rose in bed grinned impishly and adjusted the spaghetti straps of her ivory satin and lace nightgown. She looked roughly five years older than her counterpart, her golden-blonde curls cascading down her back. John was also a bit older; a few grey streaks around his temples and on the top of his head contrasted with his normally short, light brown hair. Young Rose gulped as she took note of the matching set of platinum wedding bands on their fourth fingers. The older woman bent back to kiss her husband and then dove back under the covers, snickering.   
  
John rolled his eyes and renewed his search. “Goddamn, woman, you’re gonna be the death of me. I’m not a spring chicken and you’ve got to get up and get those pages to your thesis advisor!” As if to agree with John’s complaint, they could hear the distant sound of bells from outside their Cambridge flat.   
  
Older Rose pushed back the covered in a huff and pouted at her husband. “And I was having a good morning, ta.”  
  
He grabbed her in response and tickled her viciously. “Oi, you bloody cheat!” cried Rose.   
  
“All’s fair in love and war, dear!” he growled triumphantly. “Unless you want to agree to an unconditional surrender, to be negotiated in the shower?” He moved his right hand suggestively up Rose’s now visible bare leg.   
  
Before the older Rose could reply, the scene froze in place before the voyeurs. “Look at them, Rose. Granted, it’s a bit too domestic for me, but as you can see, this will happen in your future. I’m here to offer you … hope,” said the Swede.   
  
Rose peered at him sceptically, raising an eyebrow. “How? You could be manipulating the whole thing. As you know, John admitted to retrieving the detonator.”  
  
“So he did. But as I said earlier, the Americans are rash as they are stupid. The rash tend to leave bread crumbs,” replied Björnstjerna. “Follow the bread crumbs and you shall prove the dear Ranger’s innocence and set him free. Though I should warn you that doing so may cost you dearly. But you’re used to — no — you crave the gamble!”   
  
Rose fully faced the Swede and crossed her arms in irritation. “And you know this how? You’re in his mind, as well?”  
  
The man let out a howling bout of laughter at the petite woman’s question, his cold blue eyes sparkling with mirth and amusement. “Oh, heavens no! He’s a bit too simple and it takes, shall we say, a special mind to communicate mind to mind. Especially a mind like mine.”  
  
“Are you a Time Lord?” breathed Rose.   
  
Björnstjerna chuckled softly, approaching her. He placed his fingers on her right temple and whispered darkly in her ear, “Let me show you.”  
  
  


***

  
  
  
“Rose!” shouted the Doctor frantically. He jogged down the corridor, brusquely pushing past the flight attendant, and into the sleeping area. His chocolate-coloured eyes mutated to stormy black upon gazing at the unconscious body of the blonde. Crouching next to her, the Doctor murmured her name into her ear in a first attempt at waking the sleeping beauty. Unresponsive, he pulled her into his lap and shook her. After the second failed attempt, he moaned softly in distress. Left with no other alternative, the Doctor pressed his right hand to her right temple. As he was about to close his eyes, Rose Tyler’s amber orbs fluttered open.


	33. Chapter 33: The Ties That Bind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated M for language and adult situations, i.e., racist slurs/n-word used in a specific context. I have included it because it gives a real backstory to the character of John O'Reilly. It's also key to understanding future chapters. I felt that shying away from what would have occurred in 1980s Middle America would be inauthentic and superficial. If you would like a synopsis without reading it, please do PM me. But the story is neither gratuitous, nor supportive in its use.

**The Ties That Bind**

 

John O'Reilly sat rigidly in the conference room chair, staring at the opposite wall whilst avoiding Jake Simmonds's chilly looks of rage. The worst part of being taken into custody was the silent accusations of betrayal by one's friends and allies. The second worst part was being handcuffed, sitting on one's hands — literally and metaphorically — and cutting off their circulation. However, all of it was worth Rose Tyler's life.  
  
He winced at the bruise on his wrists from Rose's interrogation. Except for his grandmother, no other woman dared to kick his arse. When Ookomisan came to live with him in Laramie after the death of his mother, Candace, she insisted that her only grandson learn the Ways of the Earth, much to his father's displeasure. A devout Catholic and equally devoted to the United States, Jack O'Reilly dismissed "Marie's" culture and language as "Injun Dancing" and routinely referring to the American Indian Movement as "terrorists and commies." Ookomisan responded to Jack's bigotry by only speaking her Leech Lake dialect to her grandson and forcing him to translate, thus making Ojibwe the seven-year-old's native tongue. For the next eight years, the boy lived in two worlds: at home, he was known as Niibaabatoo; at school and in the white world of Laramie and beyond, he was called John O'Reilly.  
  
The "Indian Question" did not ever come up in the white world, mostly because the blond-haired, blue-eyed John looked more Cowboy than Indian. Ookomisan, refusing to associate with anyone or anything European, kept to the O'Reilly ranch and watched Days of Our Lives re-runs. Jack and Ookomisan agreed upon one single thing: John was never to speak Ojibwe outside of the ranch. A few months after John's eighth birthday, John invited his friends, Tim, Paul and Patrick to play football at home. Jack had gone into town for business, leaving Ookomisan alone. When John and the three boys arrived at the ranch, his friends gasped in surprise at his grandmother's appearance: petite with wrinkled olive skin, long black hair with red and white streaks and whiskey-coloured eyes. Much to John's surprise, Ookomisan graciously spoke accented English to the boys and offered them maple syrup cookies. But within her normally calm dark eyes trembled uncertainty and dread for her young grandson.  
  
Once outside, Tim Larimer asked, "Hey, John. I didn't know you were part nigger!"  
  
John stared at his friend. "What's a nigger, Larimer?"  
  
Tim huffed and threw the football to Patrick. "It's what my daddy calls 'em. You know, dark people."  
  
The blond-haired boy paused, then shrugged. "Yeah, I guess I am part nigger."  
  
Later that evening, Ookomisan slapped her grandson after he proudly told her that she was a nigger. Tim Larimer was unofficially banned from coming to the O'Reilly Ranch.  
  
About a month after the incident at home, John noticed that people started to treat him differently. People he had known since he was two or three stared at him more, as if to search for any visible signs of his ancestry. The children at school, led by Tim Larimer, asked him if he liked fried chicken and watermelon, then laughed as if it were the funniest joke in the world.  
  
The young John, uncomprehending, asked his father at dinner. The rancher dropped his fork and knife and buried his head in his hands. Ookomisan muttered under her breath about those damned white people and their stupid schools. Clearing his throat and wiping his mouth and moustache with his napkin, Jack replied curtly, "Just tell them that you like spaghetti and mozzarella. It's not like those morons know the difference between Italian, African or Ojibwe. We all come from somewhere. Besides, you're half-Irish, anyway."  
  
Later that night, John overheard arguing between his father and grandmother.  
  
The next day at lunch, John smugly informed his classmates that he was Italian and his people invented the spaghetti on their plastic dinner trays. Overnight, John O'Reilly became the coolest kid at St. Malachy Catholic School. For the next three years, there were no more incidents at school and John brought his friends over to the ranch like any other American boy. Patrick and Paul were respectful to the elder woman, though they occasionally did ask if she made spaghetti like in Italy and could they have some.  
  
In the spring of 1985, Ookomisan's health began to fail. Sensing that her time was nearly up on Earth, she began to insist that John take part in the old rituals and learn the history and language of their people. Jack initially voiced his objections, barking to her that his son was a goddamn American and not some fuckin' Chief. After several days of passive-aggressive quarrelling and silence that characterised their relationship, Ookomisan banged her fist on the dinner table and glared viciously at her son-in-law. "You married my daughter, Niningawan! She spoke to my grandson in our language. You think she wanted him to be a typical Gichimookoman?! Enough of your foolishness. It is so." Both the rancher and his son were stunned into silence; never had either of them heard the old woman be so direct, especially in English. A few days later, he relented. Instead of after-school football, John went straight home to Ookomisan. At dawn and on weekends, he helped his father with the cattle. One afternoon, unbeknownst to John, the jilted Patrick, Paul and Tim followed their friend home and watched John and his grandmother bless the Four Corners from a distance.  
  
They knew their friend wasn't an Italian.  
  
The next day, Patrick and Paul demanded that John tell them what the hell he was doing and who he really was. John told them that he was not Italian, but Ojibwe.  
  
Patrick wrinkled his freckled nose. "What's Ojibwe? Is that like German, or somethin'?"  
  
John shook his head. "No. It's American Indian."  
  
Paul's eyes widened. "You mean, like Cowboys and Indians?" he asked.  
  
"Yeah," replied John softly.  
  
Patrick shook his head. "But they attacked white people — us, John. Why would you want to be one of them? Don't you like us anymore?"  
  
John frowned in confusion. "'Course I do. And we have never attacked you. You've been to my house and slept over! You've met my grandmother!"  
  
Paul and Patrick looked at each other and then John. "Come with us," said Paul. Ten minutes later, John O'Reilly swallowed down bile as he flipped through the American history text discussing the Indian attacks on settlers and their families during and after the French and Indian War.  
  
After school, John half-heartedly performed the rituals and spoke English to his grandmother. When asked what was the matter, the boy replied, "We're killers, Nookomis."  
  
Once Ookomisan heard the account of the French and Indian War and the many skirmishes between the US Army and Algonquin tribes in modern-day New England and Canada, she said quietly, "Noozhishenh, the Whites claim that Columbus discovered America. But what they call the Nation of the United States was once over five hundred nations. Those nations — among which were the Anishinaabe — came before Columbus. They settled here and we gave them food and shelter. But they were greedy and took our lands, even after promising not to take any more from us. Do you know how many treaties they honoured with our people?"  
  
"No, Nookomis," answered John.  
  
"None," said the woman. "It is no surprise then, Noozhishenh, that they would lie to hide their own treachery. The Words of Man are sacred. That is why we can tell no lies."  
  
"But Nookomis," interjected John, "I told a lie. I said that I was Italian instead of Ojibwe. If we're not killers, why did I have to hide?"  
  
The old woman looked squarely at her grandson, though not without empathy. "Noozhishenh, men are flawed and sometimes unwise. Your father and I did not want harm to come to you. The Whites are not known for being kind to us. The dishonest can only understand dishonesty."  
  
The dishonest can only understand dishonesty.  
  
John O'Reilly closed his adult eyes at the memory. What would Nookomis say now?  
  
Accept your path. That is our way.  
  
  


***

  
  
  
"Rose!" gasped the Doctor as the blonde woman suddenly awoke. She blinked and then stretched as if she were well-rested from sleep.  
  
"Doctor, what is it?" she asked sleepily.  
  
James Noble scanned her face for signs of harm or terror. Despite what he sensed a few moments ago from her mind, he could detect nothing out of the ordinary. Some bloody Time Lord I am, he thought in self-reproach. Had he been a full Time Lord, he would have been able to enter her mind quicker and been able to catch whatever it was.  
  
No wonder why Rose did not want him anymore. Unlike the Other, he was a half-Time Lord, half-human hybrid clone, a Metacrisis, who was a complicated point in time. Special, yes; superior, no. Of course he would fail to compare to the Original.  
  
"Doctor?" mumbled Rose.  
  
The Doctor frowned. But they were all the same man; he was a special regeneration of the Doctor, just as his first through ninth incarnations were. So why was he automatically inferior? Because, as Rassilon would argue, he had one heart, he could not regenerate.  
  
Because he was half-human and impure.  
  
But when the hell did he start caring what those bloody Time Lords thought? Stuck up bunch, they were!  
  
Doctor James Noble sighed sadly and gazed upon the keeper of his second heart. Because Rose Tyler wouldn't even look at him. "You were having a nightmare, I think," he replied quietly, taking the opportunity to stroke strands of hair from her face.  
  
Abruptly, Rose sat up, the movement pushing the Doctor from her. "I don't remember anything. But everyone has nightmares. I'm fine."  
  
"Are you?" he questioned, attempting to keep his tone neutral.  
  
"Yes!" she hissed, glaring at the half-alien. She rose from the bed and proceeded down the corridor. The Doctor quickly jogged after the blonde, reaching from behind and roughly spinning her around to face him. The two former colleagues faced each other angrily, anticipating the other to make the first move. Eying her carefully, though refusing to let her go, James harshly broke the silence. "You're not fine, and I'm the expert of 'fine'! Something happened to you. I couldn't…I couldn't wake you up." He stared into her amber-coloured eyes, the ebbs of fear, uncertainty, anger and possessiveness permeated her mind.  
  
Rose's eyes, like rich whiskey, changed into steely agate. "And honestly, why the hell would you of all people care?" She tried to pull her arm away, but the enraged and stunned Doctor refused to let go, his grip tightening. "Let me go, Doctor," she warned in a low tone.  
  
"Not a bleedin' chance, sunshine!" he growled in an equally low tone. "You think I don't care, Rose? Then why have I been following you since Paris? Since we arrived in this bloody universe?"  
  
"I'd say you've been practising the status quo," replied Rose coldly, glowering at his grip on her wrist. "The assistant doesn't exist until someone else fancies her."  
  
The Doctor tightened his grip, moving slightly into her space so that their torsos barely touched. She felt the violent thumping of his single heart that had increased as he approached her. Suddenly, he brought his right hand to her temple and pressed his fingers into the soft skin. Rose felt a knocking inside her mind, begging entrance. She gazed into the Doctor's turbulent dark orbs and shook her head. "No," she said firmly. "You don't have the right."  
  
He recoiled as though her words had physically slapped him. Hissing in an alien tone, he released her wrist and she rubbed it with her other hand, never taking her eyes off his. "Ta. Now, if you'll excuse me." As she turned to leave him, she heard the growl again and felt his breath at the base of her neck.  
  
"Where are we going?" he asked lowly.  
  
"We aren't going anywhere," Rose replied angrily, continuing to walk down the corridor with the Doctor moving to flank her. "I have a case to solve, with or without Torchwood's help. I have a man's good name to clear."  
  
"Oh, you can't be serious, Rose!" yelled the Doctor impatiently. "John O'Reilly's been playing Torchwood since he arrived in London. You heard him — he all but confessed. His friend tried to kill Olivier, Pierre, Claire, Ahmad and I! Possibly you and Jake, as well."  
  
"Well, then," snorted the blonde, "you won't mind if I investigate further. If he is guilty, then I'll gladly give evidence at his trial."  
  
"I'm sure Pete will be delighted," said the Doctor sarcastically.  
  
Enraged, Rose stopped in her tracks and spun to face the half-alien who, despite his attempts to hide the Time Lord smirk, huffed in silent victory over his mate's reaction. "What do you want, Doctor? I'm a private citizen — a rich private citizen. I can do what I please. It's no longer under Dad's purview."  
  
"It's still under my purview as the only existing Time Lord in this universe, Rose Tyler. I'm coming with you," he answered evenly.  
  
Rose crossed her arms and raised her eyebrow at him. "Half-Time Lord. You're no better than I, Doctor. Go home; grow the TARDIS. In the meanwhile, find an adventure with Eileen. This isn't your problem and I won't let you abandon another companion of yours."  
  
"I said no. You're the most danger-friendly companion I've ever had. I don't relish you being injured or worse by the Sheep-shagger's friends," he said, choking silently on the last five words.  
  
Amber bore into him like daggers. "Really? I'm the most danger-friendly companion you've ever travelled with? Aside from beggin' the question of how many there were, I crossed countless parallel worlds and managed to come 'ome in one piece. Even after bein' shot at by Daleks and Cybermen. Meanwhile, you regenerated at least twice while I've known you. You're so full of shit, Doctor. Always have been. As for John," she continued, emphasising his name, "if he wanted me dead, he could have let that Dalek finish me off. He could have…" she trailed off, then looked at the Doctor in near pity. "He could have killed me after the Daleks ambushed Mickey and I, that night when we…" she whispered, anxiously awaiting the man's reaction. "When he and I first…were together."  
  
James Noble visibly flinched at the woman's words and dropped his gaze. He chewed his lip, nodding slightly. He kept nodding as his pallor blanched to that of a centuries-old iceman. He swallowed and swayed as if ill from fever. Finally, the half-alien looked at her, his eyes having changed from burning black to a cracked metallic. He blinked rhythmically. Silence emanated from the powerful, lanky being.  
  
"I can't believe he would do something like this, Doctor. He's not Adam or Jimmy. He never ran away. He hasn't still; that's why he's sitting in custody. He turned himself in — why?"  
  
 _He's not you; he never ran away._  
  
"I don't know," he answered tersely.  
  
"I jus'… I can't give up on him. I can't," cried Rose. She turned away from the Doctor and turned toward the passenger area.  
  
"You're not doing this alone!" snarled the Doctor, resuming his flank.  
  
Rose stopped again. Her head dipped down as the Doctor moved to take her hand in his. She closed her eyes and shook her head. "Doctor, I'm not nineteen anymore. I'm not the same naive girl that you left behind five years ago. You're not the same, either…You're…" She swallowed whilst the Doctor interlaced their fingers. "And besides, I'm not River Song."  
  
The Doctor, too shocked to offer any resistance, let Rose's hand escape from his.  
  


***

  
  
The brown-haired American agent forced his blue eyes open and pushed himself up off the cold floor of the interrogation room. He moaned in pain, cursing in Danish. The man froze, uttering the curse word again.  
  
"I sound…American," he spat. The Raincoat Man glanced over to the bloodied corpse next to him. "Blimey, I lost another body. And I rather enjoyed being Danish." He scanned his new military physique. "Better health, though less intelligent. Oh well, can't have everything. I'm now…Oh!" he shouted victoriously. "Access to American secrets, top-secret military information. Well, that's not useful. I already know what he knows. But…Oh!" The man formerly known as Linus Magnussen grinned in scarcely-contained glee, "And he knows John O'Reilly. I mean knows him." Looking down pitifully at the blood-stained body at his feet, the American murmured, "It's been a pleasure, but time to move on."  
  
As he was about to turn away, he spied a card that had been flicked to the ground. From the Former Raincoat Man's memories, a dark-skinned man had thrown it at him during his interrogation. The man picked it up, studying both sides. "3-7-77. Infinity's been busy." Pocketing the card, Raincoat Man strolled out of the abandoned building and into the shaded streets of Saint-Denis.


	34. Chapter 34: Hell's Comin' With Me

**Hell's Comin' With Me**

 

James Noble stared blankly at the grey carpeting of the zeppelin corridor. Moments ago, he had passively noticed the zeppelin steadily drop altitude, making their descent into London. But he could not summon even the slightest signal from his nervous system.  
  
 _And besides, I'm not River Song._  
  
How the hell did Rose find out about River and the Library? Somehow, someone, must have told her — manipulated her — about the Other's future. The Doctor's eyes darkened like storm clouds on the horizon; before Rose woke, he had sensed a cold, dark, suffocating presence in her mind. But for some reason, either due to the metacrisis or this being, he could not identify it properly. He cursed under his breath. Since Rose no longer trusted him enough to enter her mind, a telepathic search was out of the question, no matter how vital it was to their mutual survival. Though he was so out of practise when it came to telepathy, his brown eyes widened excitedly upon realising a last possibility — if he was Time Lord enough. The Doctor spun on his heel and ran back to where Rose had slept. He was on borrowed time, as the zeppelin would no doubt land within the next thirty minutes. The half-alien took a moment to reverently caress the ivory pillow and sheets with a blue-marine Vitex logo embroidered into them before arranging his lanky frame on the small bed. The Doctor shut his eyes and focussed on her scent, her pulse, her state of mind…  
  
The Doctor found himself seated in a crimson-coloured chair. He looked around, only turning his neck like a robot, to red — red walls, red curtains with black trim, red carpet, red furniture, red ceiling.  
  
"Doctor…" rasped a disembodied voice.  
  
"Who's there?" replied the half-alien in an equally surreal echo.  
  
"Doctor who…?"  
  
"I'm the Doctor," he shouted to the room. "Who are you?"  
  
"I'm the Doctor," retorted the voice. Before James Noble could disagree, a man dressed in a familiar brown pinstriped suit, swirly tie, white Converses, brown coat and black spectacles appeared in front of him, smiling smugly. "No, Metacrisis, I'm the Doctor."  
  
James gaped like a goldfish. "What the hell…?" he breathed.  
  
"A bit slow, aren't you? Well," the Time Lord sniffed, "can't be helped. You lost IQ points in the Metacrisis transfer. It's bit like Rainman — the man and his idiot savant brother. I'd ask you to count the stars in the room, except that I've already done it."  
  
"You're not him," James growled.  
  
The Doctor raised his eyebrow. "How is that, my dear Theta Sigma?"  
  
James smiled thinly. "Because, sunshine, that's the name I just communicated to you, Thete. You know that's not my name."  
  
"Nice try," retorted the Time Lord. "You know we can't say the Name of the Doctor."  
  
"If you're me and I'm you," challenged the Metacrisis, "then you'd be able to whisper it in my ear. So do it. Say my name."  
  
"The Valeyard," he answered blithely. "Satan, if you prefer."  
  
"Hardly," sneered James. "Try again, if you dare."  
  
"I gave you my answer, Mischling." The Time Lord popped his lips together, as though savouring a foreign tang on his tongue. "Mischling, Metacrisis — they sound the same. I mean, one's a nicer, more civilised Time Lord term for lesser, don't you think, Meta-thing?"  
  
The Metacrisis said nothing, instead studying the alien with an intense, wrathful glare.  
  
"No? Actually, you and I both know that Instantaneous Biological Metacrisis is so woefully inadequate to describe you. But I'm brilliant in making that up on the fly! Rose knows this," taunted the brown-suited alien.  
  
James could feel the beginning of his rage radiate into the room. He slowly stood and moved toe to toe with his duplicate. "You leave her alone," he growled. "I'm here to convey one message, and I'm going to say it once. Leave her mind now!"  
  
The duplicate snickered delightfully. "Oh yes! The Meta-crisis lives up to his name! After the decisive point, in the category of one who judges, if I recall my Ancient Greek, and of course, I do! Socrates and Aristotle taught me themselves!" He snickered again, making a semi-circle around the enraged Metacrisis. "That was me, not you, Duplicate," he added.  
  
James unconsciously balled his fists at his sides, never taking his heated dark eyes away from his twin.  
  
"And I'm not occupying Rose's mind, as you insinuate. She keeps contacting me." The double leaned into James's ear and hissed, "I think she still fancies me, Mischling. John and I, that is. I could tell you about the delightful little ménage à trois we enjoyed the other night. The pleasure I gave her as I…" Before the Doctor could continue, the Metacrisis's balled fist curved toward his duplicate's cheek. With cat-like reflexes, he stealthily moved out of the way, allowing the Metacrisis's momentum to carry him face-down to the crimson carpet. James quickly flipped onto his back and crawled away from the alien. "Now, I know you're not him," whispered the Metacrisis. "He would never engage in that with a human."  
  
The alien sniffed. "Oh alright, fine. I'll admit, bestiality lost its allure eons ago. But it's so easy to provoke you. It should be listed as an eighth deadly sin."  
  
"Who are you? What do you want with Rose?" demanded James.  
  
"The question is, Mischling, who aren't I? I'm known by many names. So are you, for that matter, Doctor. Mischling," the man knelt to the Metacrisis's level, "Metacrisis, John Smith, Earl Foreman, James McCrimmon, James Alastair Bowman. You seem to be rather fond of the name James, Doctor James Noble. Kinsman of…Donna Noble."  
  
James's eyes blazed fire and ice.  
  
"Yes!" cried the alien excitedly. "Show me your essence, Ka Faraq Gatri!" The red of the room brightened into a crimson flame of heat, smoke and fire; the Doctor heard terrified children crying for their parents, as they screamed at robotic voices and laser fire in the distance. The half-alien's eyes darkened, as he picked up the rifle-like weapon at his feet.  
  
 _Pick it up, Ka Faraq Gatri._  
  
The Doctor picked up the weapon and set it to kill before charging into the citadel of Arcadia.  
  
"EXTERMINATE!" shrieked the Daleks above, below, next to, and far away from him. Debris pelted him like hailstones and the sky turned a sickly greenish-grey. He managed to run to a makeshift command post behind a fallen slab of concrete-like building material, where several Gallifreyan soldiers had huddled, waiting for the moment to open fire.  
  
"Report!" shouted the War Doctor. "How many Daleks?"  
  
"Unknown, sir," replied the lieutenant next to him. "They're everywhere!"  
  
"What do we have? What's our arsenal?" demanded the War Doctor, as he checked his weapon for the tenth time.  
  
"We've no more weapons, General," cried another.  
  
"No, we've one more," said the major in charge, a junior Time Lord known as Malanthropos. "Lord Rassilon gave us the Black Sun. We've no choice, Lord General."  
  
The Doctor froze, remembering this moment as clearly as if it happened the previous day. No, he moaned futilely in his head, feeling his face contort to one of madness and pain and his lips hiss "Do it, for Gallifrey!" The lieutenant activated a small hypercube. "This will protect us from the impact blast," she said quietly.  
  
The Doctor counted down the ten seconds it took for the Major to throw the grenade-like device toward the Daleks, hit the ground, explode and incinerate every Gallifreyan and Dalek within a thousand-kilometre radius. He watched skin melt from bone, octopus-like membranes explode, Gallifreyans and their pets run and whimper whilst on fire and screams of young children who would cease to be in the next few minutes.  
  
This was the six-thousandth time that the War Doctor destroyed Gallifrey in a futile attempt to end the Last Great Time War.  
  
He would destroy it five hundred times more.  
  
"Stop, please, stop…" begged the Doctor pitifully.  
  
"You know what the opposite of Good is, Doctor?" asked the voice to the shaking and whimpering alien. "It's hopelessness. As for our pretty Rose, fire…walk…with…me…"  
  
"Doctor!" a French voiced cried, shaking him. "Doctor, wake up!"  
  
James Noble bolted awake, drenched in sweat and shaking furiously. He swallowed and searched his surroundings. Instead of finding a redhead or a beautiful blonde, the Doctor looked up to a concerned Pierre Cohen. The young man pushed his spectacles up his nose and cleared his voice. "Doctor, are you well?"  
  
"Wha-? Oh, yes, I'm fine," he said softly. "Just fell asleep."  
  
Pierre eyed him suspiciously and then nodded uneasily. "Yes, well, Director Tyler wants to see us. We're about to land in London. Apparently, the press has already arrived. Someone tipped them off about Agent O'Reilly."  
  
The Doctor bolted off the cot and down the hallway. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. He had a strange, uneasy feeling, one that always followed from a nightmare. But as he thought more about it, James failed to recall the details of his dream. He stopped in the middle of corridor, nearly colliding with Pierre.  
  
"Doctor, what's wrong?" asked the young man.  
  
"I…I was investigating something…Something telepathic. But I can't remember what it was. This is, this is…Oh, bloody hell, I'm a Time Lord!" he shouted, pulling his hair in frustration. "I'm supposed to remember!"  
  
"Was it about Rose, Doctor?" inquired Pierre.  
  
The Gallifreyan paused for a moment, considering the young man's conjecture, before shaking his head. "I can't remember," he muttered quietly. Lifting his head in shame, he continued toward the main cabin.  
  


***

  
  
The Vitex Zeppelin touched down at the Tylers' private hanger roughly a kilometre away from the main landing strip of London-Heathrow airport. Pete Tyler peered out of his office window to spot, much to his dismay, a group of fifty reporters wandering about like sharks, eager to jam their microphones into his agents' faces for a comment. Grimacing, he slid on his suit-jacket, adjusted his tie, and moved toward the doors. The Parisian youths, a foul-tempered Daph, a sweaty, pale Doctor, an angry Jake Simmonds gripping a bruised and handcuffed John O'Reilly by the elbow, and a nonchalant Rose standing slightly next to John and Jake looked up to the approaching, older man.  
  
"Who the bloody hell invited the entire London Press to join us?" hissed Pete in an unusual public expression of emotion.  
  
The group all looked at each other in total ignorance, confusion and shock. "Right," he continued. "What I hoped was going to be a quiet escort to the Republic's Prison in wait of trial has become a goddamned circus." He gestured to the flashing cameras and squabbling near the landed zeppelin.  
  
"Fucking hell," growled Jake.  
  
Pete raised his eyebrow. "Any ideas?"  
  
"They want a big fuckin' story — give 'em one," said John whilst peering at the petite blonde near him. Though she tried to feign indifference, a slight shiver radiated through her body. She could only hope that her father would refuse.  
  
Pete studied him for a second. John's faint gaze at Rose did not go unnoticed by the Torchwood director. "You're supposed to be avoiding scrutiny, Agent O'Reilly. You don't make a very good spy."  
  
John laughed mirthlessly, holding up his handcuffs. "They've come for the Yank in 'cuffs. Besides," he looked at Rose again tenderly, irritating the half-alien behind him, "we need to maintain someone else's cover. Not to mention those of the kids and the Lord Shitbag of Time."  
  
Pete put his hand up to stop the aggravated alien from menacing the handcuffed agent. "Fine, Agent O'Reilly. It seems as if we have no alternative." John glanced warningly at Rose and Jake, who remained silent. "Jake and I will give a brief statement to the press. You all will stay on board until the press has witnessed Agent O'Reilly in custody with MI5 and Counter-Terrorism. Once we get rid of the sharks, you'll be driven to my estate. All of you," he said, glaring at the Doctor. Pete tugged on his tie once more. "Right, then. Jake, Agent O'Reilly, shall we?"  
  
"Nothin' like a good perp walk," muttered the American. Shoving a black mask over O'Reilly's head, Jake and his prisoner exited the zeppelin first to the flashing of cameras and voices clamouring for comment. Pete hurriedly followed them, oblivious to the text message from Olivier Jean-Baptiste marked URGENT.  
  


***

  
  
_"I'm Christopher Almaddin with BBC World News. Our top stories: the US President met with the Haitian President Jean-Baptiste Dessalines today to discuss a trade agreement between the two countries. President Harriet Jones reported a healthy economy, despite scepticism expressed by Tory leaders at Question Time. Breaking news….Vitex CEO and Torchwood Director Peter Tyler has apprehended an unidentified American national suspected of violating the Data Protection Act and wanted for questioning in connection with the Paris bombings nearly four days ago._  
  
'We will not comment on this case, as it is on-going,' said Director Tyler. 'I will affirm that we do have a suspect in custody and we will be working jointly with the appropriate authorities here in Great Britain, Sweden and France.'  
  
We do not currently know who the man in the black mask is, only that he is presumed to be American and was working in conjunction with the Torchwood Institute. It is not known if he was a Torchwood attaché or agent.  
  
Neither Number Ten nor the Home Office has made a public comment."  
  
  


***

  
  
  
"Oh, bloody hell, it's about time!" cried a middle-aged blonde woman in a peach pantsuit as the five civilians climbed out of the black limousine in front of the luxurious Tyler Mansion. Since the Cyber Wars, the Tyler Mansion had been repainted a beige and black trim and refurbished on the outside; within the past two years, an entire wing had been added for Tony and Rose, thanks to the 'uncyberisable' Jackie Tyler. The Vitex socialite went to Rose and the Doctor first, hugging them warmly. The Doctor closed his eyes, silently begging Jackie to let him go. "Finally. It's about time you two came to your senses. Tony's forgotten that he even has a sister," she added acidly. The Doctor awkwardly gazed at his dirty Converses whilst Rose attempted to protest. Jackie then studied the three French youths and the cat, who attempted to puff out his chest in the carrier. Suddenly, the woman began to wheeze, backing away from Daph. "Oh, that bleedin' ijit! I'm sorry, but I'm," she covered her mouth as she sneezed loudly, "allergic to cats. Tony, too." Jackie continued to sneeze for several minutes. Pierre and Claire huddled around Daph in alarm. Rose wordlessly begged the Doctor to help them; James closed his eyes, acquiescing in defeat.  
  
"Um, I was going back to my flat anyway, Jackie. I'll take Daph," he murmured, glaring and pouting at Rose.  
  
"Doctor, but…" Jackie started, but sighed heavily. "Okay, but you'd better get your alien arse back here. Tony misses you," she said, nudging Rose.  
  
"How are you getting back, Doctor?" asked Rose, much to Jackie's visible dismay.  
  
"Oh," he replied dismissively, "I'll take a taxi back to the flat. I've got the ol' girl to check on, yeah? You can be my assistant, Daph," he said triumphantly. The Scottish Fold hissed and snarled.  
  
"Nonsense, love," interjected Jackie. "I'll have my driver take ya. It's the least we can do. You'd be stayin' here if Pete had bloody remembered about the cat! I'll not havin' ya' think we've put ya' out!"  
  
"I'm sure Dad had things on his mind, Mum," growled Rose.  
  
"I'm sure he does, Rose! But allergies are a bit much to forget! And now we're bein' rude to the Doctor and your friends!" The elder blonde stared at the silent and frightened Pierre, Claire and Ahmad. "It's okay. Please come in; Rose, Laurie and Winifred will help you to your rooms. I'll stay here with the Doctor." Jackie gave them all her patented _Do not argue with a Prentice Woman glare_ ; Pierre, Claire and Ahmad, tired from their journey and emotional turmoil, filed inside the mansion, Rose reluctantly following them. The Doctor, cat in hand, stood melancholically at the end of the driveway with Jackie, who kept a safe distance from the animal.  
  
"Jackie, I'm fine. Really," mumbled the Doctor.  
  
The woman turned to him and shot him a stern frown. "Are you, Doctor? I've not seen you in three bloody months, the man who supposedly left an entire universe behind for my stubborn daughter. Meanwhile, she's takin' up with that American bloke."  
  
James shrugged his shoulders weakly. "What can I do? I screwed it up, Jackie. I ... I'm human. Well, half-human. I can't take her to the stars." He scoffed. "I've gotten her into trouble, so much trouble in the past few days. Cost her job at Torchwood."  
  
Jackie rolled her eyes, as the rear passenger door of the car pulled up directly in front of the Doctor. "And this is different _how_ since I've known you? You've always been half-human." At the Doctor's look of shock, she smiled slightly. "You plum, I'm not totally stupid. An all-powerful alien bloke who has a chance to go anywhere, yet comes to Earth when the goings' rough. All of his companions are human? Honestly, I'm not worried 'bout you. You're…you."  
  
"Ta," replied the Doctor sarcastically.  
  
"I'm worried about Rose," continued Jackie, as though he had not spoken. "She's not been herself since we returned from Norway. It's like a piece of her's missing. I can't reach her. Then again I've not been much use to 'er since you showed up," she pushed blondish-grey hair from her face.  
  
"That's not true, Jackie! Rose, she…She wanted, needed you. You're her mum. That's why I-we brought her home," the Doctor motioned his hands, offering her the truth of the matter.  
  
"I like this you better," snorted Jackie, as she opened the door for him, covering her mouth slightly. "The one before ya, he was always such a lying sack of shite." The Doctor rolled his eyes as he slipped inside the black town car, cradling the cat who adjusted himself in the carrier. Jackie snorted, shutting the door.  
  
Neither of them noticed a younger blonde watching from an upstairs window.  
  
  


***

  
  
  
The cat growled as the tired and dejected James Noble opened the door to an irate redhead dressed in a black jean jacket, maroon tee, blue jeans and black and white Converses. "I'm getting a Christmas bonus, Doctor, and I will write my own cheque! Tailing you is not a good use of resources."  
  
"Hello, Donna, and yes, whatever you want. Um, you're good with cats, right?" he asked timidly.  
  
Donna uncrossed her arms and walked to the cat carrier, where a wide, orange-eyed blue Scottish Fold silently pleaded for her to let him out of his prison. Murrrowl, he begged the woman. "Oh, what a love!" She offered her index finger to the cat, who marked and scented it in greeting. James rolled his eyes at Donna's predictable cooing at the blue beast. She slowly unlocked the carrier; Daph ran out at medium pace, hissing loudly at the Doctor as he passed by and into the kitchen.  
  
"What did you do to him?" inquired Donna, eying him suspiciously. "And speakin' of him, what's his name?"  
  
James faced her squarely. "For your information, Ms I Love Killer Kitties, I didn't do anything to him! He kidnapped me!" Daph turned around, ruffling his thick, blue-grey fur, and narrowed his eyes into little orange slits. "Oi, that's right, you bloody tosser! If you weren't a cat, I'd have you locked up!" At Donna's raised eyebrow, James coughed and continued, "His name is Daph."  
  
"Daph? As in Daphne? Someone's a bit thick," groused Donna.  
  
"Ah, no. Daph as in…The Marquis," he whispered conspiratorially.  
  
"The Marquis?"  
  
"Donatien Alphonse François," coughed James uncomfortably.  
  
Donna closed her eyes and pinched her nose in disgust. "Someone actually named their bloody cat after the Marquis de Sade?"  
  
"Yep," replied James. "And, no, Donna, it wasn't me!"  
  
"Obviously. I'd expect some weird alien name from you." James froze for the third time in twenty-four hours — at least, three times that he could remember — whilst Donna rolled her eyes. "The whole Mr Spock mind-meld thing gave it away, Spaceman. Now, let's get Daph fed." She walked over to the waiting cat, with the Doctor following right behind her. "Spaceman, ask him what he wants. I know you probably speak Cat or something. And ask him nicely."  
  
The Doctor crossed his arms and huffed, "The little tosser wants mouse porridge, but he'll accept tuna. Well, I don't have either."  
  
"Yes, you do," argued Donna, as she opened the pantry and took some tinned tuna. Opening the can, she poured some juice into a small glass bowl and offered it to the hungry cat. Daph sauntered toward the bowl and drank greedily, wrapping his tail around her calf in thanks. A few moments later, he turned away from the bowl and Donna, moved past the Doctor, hissing in his direction, and jumped onto the sofa. The cat regally sat down, facing the two humanoids, having decided to hold court in the sitting room. Donna crossed the room and sat next to the cat, petting and scratching him. Daph smiled, displaying a bit of canine in pleasure. James sat on the arm of the black push chair on their right, sneering jealously at the union between human — his parallel sister — and cat.  
  
Still scratching the cat's neck, Donna regarded the Doctor briefly, before commenting, "I've called Shawn — he'll be up to see Agent O'Reilly once they clear him. Extra governmental protocols and all that. But what happened to you?"  
  
The Doctor stared at the wooden floor and mock oriental rug underneath his dirty Converses. "I don't know, Donna. It's more than just a terrorist incident. It's more than just some alien virus. This even goes beyond what John O'Reilly's capable of."  
  
Donna moved gently from the cat and moved to sit on the floor next to the Doctor. "Tell me, Doctor."  
  
James glanced down at Donna. "You trust me."  
  
"Yeah. I can't explain it, but I do. Fully," she replied softly. "And I'm not one to just trust anyone. Why would I do that? Did…did you mind-control me?"  
  
He frowned. "What-? No, Donna! Telepathy doesn't work like that. I can't make you do something that you don't want to do. That's just wrong!" he shouted.  
  
"Okay, okay, Doctor," she soothed. "I believe you. Just…tell me."  
  
James took a deep breath. "On board Pete's zeppelin, I had an experience. Only I can't remember anything. It's like having my memory wiped clean. But…whatever it was, it was…I don't know!"  
  
Donna watched the Doctor's eyes dull mindlessly as his body shook violently. "Doctor, whatever it is, is it wise to remember?"  
  
"I h-h-have to, Donna. Rose's life may depend on it."  
  
"And what of the case in Paris? Solve it, then maybe you'll come upon what happened en route?" she asked. "In the meanwhile, go have a shower. I'll let Shawn know that I'll be a bit late."  
  
The Doctor nodded meekly. A few moments afterward, he found himself leaning against the marble of his shower, the water at its hottest setting. Breathing in and out mechanically, the Doctor blinked the water out of his eyes and he vaguely remembered having entered the en-suite moments earlier. Then he felt slender arms warmly encircle his torso and a feminine voice seductively murmur his name. James spun around to see a smiling, naked Rose Tyler. The fear that had petrified him disappeared, leaving him with wonder, raw desire and joy. "Rose," he murmured. She smiled again. Stroking wet blonde hair, he leaned down and kissed the woman, pinning her lips and body to the marble wall.  
  


***

  
  
_"I'm Christopher Almaddin with BBC World News at Six. As of this afternoon, we have been following the story of the unidentified American arrested by Torchwood and British authorities on suspicion of terrorism and espionage activities. At a state dinner hosted in honour of His Excellency, Prime Minister Niels Olson of Sweden, President Jones issued a brief statement regarding the arrest:_  
  
'I am not yet privy to all details surrounding the arrest of this individual, so I would consult with our esteemed ally, the President of the United States, before making hasty conclusions. After all, I'm sure that Madam President has a very good explanation for all of this.'  
  
Prime Minister Olson has not yet been available for a statement, though the new Swedish Chargé d'affaires to France, His Excellency, Mr Karl Björnstjerna, replacement of the Swedish Ambassador killed in the bombing, gave a brief press conference:  
  
'Four days ago, I lost several friends and colleagues in a cruel, cowardly act by extremists whom we all are too familiar with in today's world. I am confident that, thanks to the commitment and thorough work by the French gendarmerie, Interpol, Torchwood and the Säkerhetspolisen, we will not rest until we find and arrest the perpetrators.'  
  
When Mr Björnstjerna was asked about the American suspect in custody, he was, like President Jones and the Home Office, reluctant to give details:  
  
'I would like to give our esteemed colleagues in Great Britain time to communicate their findings to us. I know Mr Tyler and Madam President Jones; they will do their jobs with all due diligence and haste.'  
  
A formal fundraiser and dinner for the victims and their families of the Paris bombing will be held in London by Jacqueline Tyler at Kensington Palace on 17 December. Though it is unclear whether Prime Minister Olson will be in attendance, it is rumoured that Mr Björnstjerna, the President of France and the President of the United States will be present."


	35. Chapter 35: Four of a Kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay. But to make up for it, I've included a long chapter filled (hopefully) with suspense, humour and the kitchen sink. The Latin included is 100% correct, as it's from Cicero. Bonus points to the reader who can correctly reference the origin. The Swedish is, I hope, correct, as I consulted a Swedish grammar book and people who know the language, in addition to similarities between Swedish and German. I'm not a native speaker, so I apologise in advance for any mistakes.

**Four of a Kind**

 

Rose’s amber eyes gleamed against the twilight streaming into her bedroom window at the Tyler Mansion and the backlight of her flat screen. She alternated between two tabs: one of a scanned copy of the _Somnium_ through her UCL student access to the Bodleian Libraries at Oxford and the other of an online Latin-English dictionary that seemed woefully inadequate. Though she had completed her A-Levels in Pete’s World, she chose to study Catalan for two years, as she thought it might be useful on the planet and city of Barcelona. Though Catalan was a Romance language in many ways closer to Latin than French or Spanish, having evolved over the course of two thousand years from its mother language, it rendered no assistance to the Greek-influenced Renaissance Latin of Johannes Kepler. Rose puffed out a weighty, frustrated sigh as she was forced to translate the document word for word, only to hazard a guess at the meaning from the foreign Latin syntax.  
  
Solve the mystery.  
  
“How can I solve the mystery and save John if I can’t read the bloody book?” she asked herself. Without John or Jake to reassure her, she felt more alone than ever. Rose glanced at her Vitexphone; telephoning the Doctor for help was out of the question. Though she knew he would like nothing better than lord his vast Time Lord knowledge over her ape-like mind, the Torchwood ex-agent adamantly refused to give him the satisfaction. She was as capable as he and Eileen. After all, it was she, Rose Tyler, who helped design the Dimension Cannon and travelled countless universes to find the Doctor. She would finish the job and the lot of them could go to hell. But she needed help. As a relevant person who was relatively accessible and able to help came to mind, Rose heard a faint knock at her bedroom door and saw the knob weakly turn.   
  
Knowing who was trying to enter, she smiled faintly. “Come in, Tony.”  
  
The three-year-old strawberry blond boy dressed in a cranberry and gold nursery school uniform entered quietly, looking up at his sister with the large blue-green eyes of their father for silent permission to approach. Rose put the flat screen aside and gently padded the space next to her on the bed. Tony smiled and ran over to his elder sister. He climbed up into the space and presented a child-sized flat screen to Rose, keeping another for himself, and gazed up at her expectantly. She took it; the flat screen displayed Mario Kart, his favourite game.   
  
“Alright,” she acquiesced, “one round.” Tony grinned as she selected Princess Daisy to his King Koopa.  
  
One round and loss to the evil dinosaur turned into forty-five minutes, ten games and a draw before a forceful knock interrupted the giggles of the siblings. Amber and blue-green looked at the door quizzically to see a tired-looking Pete Tyler sans coat and tie standing in the entrance. “Dinner’s waiting for you downstairs. Tony,” he addressed the little boy quietly, “why don’t you go wash up a bit? We’ve got guests. One’s a scientist, eh?” The child said nothing. “Go on,” he urged the boy. Tony pouted slighted, glancing up at his sister, but eventually obeyed his father. Taking the flat screens, Pete allowed his son to disappointedly pass by him before focussing on his elder daughter whose neutral expression instantly changed to irritation and hostility once her little brother was out of sight. Crossing her arms, she affected her best impression of her mother.   
  
Pete’s blue-green eyes flickered slightly before hardening. “Rose,” he began, but was promptly cut off by the icy voice of his daughter.   
  
“What, Dad? Or is it Director?” she hissed.   
  
The elder man glared pointedly at Rose. “I’m not changing my mind. This is for your own good, speaking as both the Director of Torchwood and as your father!” Pete rubbed his face wearily with his right hand, calming himself before readdressing Rose. “Love, isn’t it time to stop chasing ghosts?”  
  
“What do you mean?” Rose asked.   
  
“Do you really want this to be your life? Chasing aliens and negotiating the bureaucracy of Number Ten?” Pete walked into her room and sat in Tony’s place. “Rose, you’re young. This life might seem fun or smart now, but there’s always a price. I paid it seven years ago.” Pete lowered his head in remembrance. “You’re too young to pay that, love.”  
  
Rose watched her parallel father for a moment before shrugging nonchalantly. “Dad, in some sense, I’ve paid it. I was returned to this universe without a single thought as to what I wanted.”  
  
The elder man glanced at her, a flicker of emotion appearing in his eyes. “Returned to your family isn’t so terrible. You were also returned with the Doctor.”  
  
She gaped at him in shock and anger. Unlike Jackie, who always managed to mention him in every conversation they had had post-Dårlig Ulv Stranden, this was the first time that her father tried to broach the subject with his daughter. Unwilling to discuss that subject with him, she slid off the bed and stomped out into the corridor, Pete following closely behind her.   
  
“Rose, stop!” bellowed Pete.   
  
The blonde stopped in annoyance, refusing to face Pete. “You know, you’re both similar in that respect. You both act the regular man whilst giving orders, then condemning your good soldiers for doing exactly what you told them to do. But as you’ve pointed out, I’m no longer Torchwood. I can live my life as I please, Dad.” Rose continued down the hallway toward the staircase, leaving a flabbergasted and cross Pete Tyler in the wake of her rage.   
  
In spite of the presence of Ahmad, Claire and Pierre, dinner was a tense affair at the Tyler Mansion. Pete and Rose avoided eye contact and remained chillily silent whilst Jackie did her best at making conversation with their guests unnerved at the strain between father and daughter. After the main course of chicken with wild rice, Jackie sent for dessert of fruit and assorted cheeses. Bored and frightened by the icy détente between sister and father, Tony tried to get Pierre, the scientist, to play with his erector set, but was soundly scolded by his mother for his lack of table manners. The irascible three-year-old banged his fork across his plate in response, a soundless but effective call to be sent to his room. Like his sister, Tony stomped off to his room, pocketing his flat screen under his school sweater when neither parent was watching.   
  
Jackie folded her arms and set her eyes scathingly at her husband and daughter from the other head of the table. “What the hell is up with you? Out with it!”  
  
Pete calmly popped a piece of pear in his mouth with his dessert fork. “Jacks, it’s alright,” he began, gesturing with his eyes at the three dinner guests, “I’ll tell you later.”  
  
“Bollocks!” yelled his wife. “You’re carryin’ on as if they weren’t here. The both of you. Now, have you somethin’ to share?”  
  
Pierre looked at his sister and friend, wondering if the three should make a discreet exit at the impending family row.  
  
“No, mum, we don’t,” grumbled Rose, poking at the piece of melon on her plate.   
  
Jackie shook her head. “And look at you. Did ya even phone the Doctor? Ask him for dinner?”  
  
Rose glared squarely at her mum. “He’s busy. If it’s so bloody important to you, why didn’t you ask him?”  
  
“I did, but I think he assumes that he’s not wanted. Who do we have to thank for that?”  
  
“Jacks, that’s enough,” interjected Pete, putting his left hand like a barrier to Rose’s inevitable verbal assault on her mum. “We’ve all had a really rough couple of days and our silence,” he paused at the word, eyeing his daughter briefly, “is simply tiredness.” He cleared his throat and directed his attention to his three dinner guests. “Our apologies. We have been remarkably rude. Please forgive us.” Pierre, Claire and Ahmad smiled, waiving their hands in good-natured dismissal.  
  
“Mr Bloody Diplomat,” muttered Jackie under her breath. Rose rolled her eyes, throwing her dinner napkin on the table. She stood abruptly and said to her parents, “I’m through.” Then she faced the French youths. “I’m knackered. I’ll see you in the morning.” Despite Jackie’s protests, Rose walked briskly up the staircase and to her bedroom, locking the door behind her. She switched on her flat screen and tried to focus her attention on the Latin of the _Somnium_. After ten minutes, she slapped her bed in frustration.   
  
“What do you need, Agent Tyler?” called out a male voice. Rose jumped at the sound to find Karl Björnstjerna reclining in the swivel chair at her desk.   
  
“Minister, how…?” asked a visible surprised Rose.   
  
“Tsk, tsk, Rose. We’ve already had this conversation. You call, I answer.”  
  
“Why?” she demanded.   
  
“You tell me. I sense,” he laughed, “I love that word sense. It’s so woefully inappropriate. Anyway, I sense,” he continued, making quotation marks with his fingers, “that you’re a bit…stumped. So tell me what is troubling you.”  
  
Rose gulped unwittingly, studying the alien.   
  
“I’m here as a friend, Agent Tyler,” he enunciated carefully.   
  
“I…I’m trying to read the _Somnium_ , but I can’t read Latin. Never learnt it in school,” she murmured, never taking her eyes off the man in the chair.   
  
“Hmm,” he replied, standing regally to glide to Rose. He extended his hand for the flat screen. Slowly, the blonde gave it to him. He touched a few buttons and drew his finger gently across the screen. Then, as he returned the flat screen to her, Björnstjerna dipped down and whispered in Rose’s ear, “My pleasure.” Rose glanced down at the screen. The text was in readable English.   
  
Björnstjerna smirked, folding his arms across his narrow chest. “Now, my dear Rose, I need something from you.”  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
John O’Reilly sat on a small, plush bed with ivory and red linens in a clean, medium-sized, white-walled prison, the light turned overhead in contrast to the descending darkness from the window. After being blindfolded and shoved into the car with Jake Simmonds and Pete Tyler, he was unceremoniously pushed out by Jake at an unknown location and taken into custody by MI5 to the Queen’s House at Tower of London, where he was informed that he would be debriefed and moved to his permanent location in the morning. Though he instinctively knew that the British were treating him well due to his American passport and ‘frenemy’ status and The Hague Convention of 1907 dictating warfare and treatment of prisoners. His jailer, a Mr Smith, indirectly commented on the situation, “Great Britain doesn’t want another Dreyfus Affair like those bloody Frogs managed to rut themselves.”   
  
He was allowed a pencil and paper, anything written subject to official censorship, but was forbidden telecommunications of any sort. There were moreover a basic shower and flushing toilet, with supplies except a razor provided. Dinner would be served at 1900 hours, lights-out at 2100 hours and he was expected to be ready to leave the Queen’s House at 0500 hours. As a courtesy, they provided a change of clothing comprising of standard military-issue undergarments, dull brown trousers and long shirt.   
  
John had not expected to be well-treated by his captors; though he had never been a prisoner of war or captured by the enemy, several of his fellow Rangers who had been discovered in Iraq, Afghanistan, Curacao, South Africa and no-go areas within the United States had shared stories of the most horrific torture of civilians and prisoners of war. Yet he knew from years of training to be on his guard: sometimes the enemy liked to fatten up its geese before slaughter.   
  
Waiting was the most agonising part of capture for a Ranger. John tried to block out from his thoughts a certain blonde heiress with amber eyes. He tried not to pretend that he was a free man and that she was laying nude in the small bed, her hair gloriously curly and mussed from a vigorous round of lovemaking. A whisper crept into his mind: what would she do now that he would never again be free? Where was his ‘friend’? He shook his head violently; focussing on her would do him no good in the long run.   
  
_Don’t give up,_ whispered another voice, this time feminine, from behind him. John turned his head and stood up to face it. “Who’s there?” Silence fell in the room; the Ranger dismissed the incident, attributing it to fatigue.  
  
The same voice spoke again in a whisper, _“Never shall I fail my comrades. I will always keep myself mentally alert, physically strong and morally straight and I will shoulder more than my share of the task whatever it may be, one-hundred-percent and then some.  
  
‘Gallantly will I show the world that I am a specially selected and well-trained soldier. My courtesy to superior officers, neatness of dress and care of equipment shall set the example for others to follow…’”  
  
“Rangers lead the way,”_ finished John, matching the tone and volume of the whisper. The Rangers Creed, the heartbeat of every man in the 75th Regiment. John rose to his feet, quickly formulating a plan. He was not precisely in enemy territory, though he understood that the U.S. Government would very likely permit the British to turn him over to the French and Swedish counter-terrorism agencies as a rogue agent. Their standard policy with respect to captured personnel was to deny everything. However, the FBI and CIA also knew that the mission in Boston was a diplomatic clusterfuck; ironically, that was John’s only trump card to play. The rather personal knowledge that he had of the incident in question could potentially ruin several careers, including that of the current Madam President, a woman whose politics were as changeable as the weather in Washington, D.C., and whose corruption and criminal activities were long suspected yet remained unproven thanks to the immense charisma and political clout of her husband. As an Army Ranger, former Sergeant O’Reilly was sworn to secrecy pertaining to all of his missions throughout an eighteen-year career. But the Boston Assignment would follow him to the grave, given what Torchwood discovered in Paris. America was supposedly the nation of innovation, but it was really a militaristic state of isolationism, oligarchy and proto-fascism, where the wealthy and friends of certain individuals ruled with an iron fist and 24-hour media, intimidating citizens at home and foreign states to fall in line with their Master plan that changed on a whim.   
  
It was serious enough that he expected assassination by the Raincoat Man at any moment. But somehow, to prevent more atrocities against unarmed civilians, he had to convince both President Jones and Director Tyler that there was a connection, without revealing classified information.   
  
Don’t give up.   
  
Deciding to co-operate with his captors, John showered and clothed himself in the prisoner’s outfit. At precisely 1900 hours, Mr Smith and an unnamed officer walked in and set a metal tray on his desk next to his stationery. Mr Smith cleared his throat dignifiedly and spoke in crisp Received Pronunciation, “Your meal, Agent O’Reilly: steak frites, served bleu, in honour of the fallen Parisian citizenry. I’m afraid President Jones did not afford you any red wine.” His junior officer smirked, setting a metal cup filled with a white liquid. “Here’s some milk. Bon appétit.”  
  
John looked down at the rather questionable, bloody London steak, oily chips and milk. “Thank you kindly, sir, but I’m lactose intolerant.”  
  
“I did not expect Americans to be such picky eaters about fast food. But have it your way. I’ll come to collect you in the morning. Good evening.” As Mr Smith and the officer were about to leave the room, John called out, “Sir? Permission to have reading material.”  
  
Mr Smith growled, “Agent O’Reilly, I run a prison, not a library.”  
  
“Yes, sir. However, I request one book that's brief in length. It is not politically motivated in any respect.”  
  
His captor arched an eyebrow at the unusual request. “Provided that the Tower of London has it in the library, I’ll take it under advisement. What is the title?”  
  
The Ranger smiled slightly, inwardly acknowledging success. “The Somnium by Johannes Kepler, sir.”  
  
“You realise, Agent O’Reilly, that an English translation does not exist of that particular book?” asked Mr Smith.   
  
“Yes, sir, I do. But I can read Latin.”  
  
“Cuius partes duae: iustitia, in qua virtutis splendor est maximus, ex qua viri boni nominantur…”  
  
“…et huic coniuncta beneficentia, quam eandem vel benignitatem vel liberalitatem appellari licet,” finished John.   
  
Mr Smith’s lips formed a fleeting smile. “I read Classics at Oxford. Always liked a man who knows his Cicero. Very well, Agent O’Reilly. I’ll see if the Somnium can be found.  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
“Doctor? Are you alright?”   
  
The knock on the en-suite door and Donna’s concerned voice brought the shuddering Doctor out of his intense trance. One hand braced himself against the marble slab inside the shower and his eyes opened slowly, almost painfully, to find himself cold and alone. Breathing heavily, he managed, “Yeah, just a tic.” James swallowed in anguish as he realised that the Rose who caressed his wet body had been an illusion.   
  
The Time Lord chastised the Human for acting on his primal desires as the latter screamed in frustration and torment. His fears intertwined with his fantasies, all of which centred on Rose Tyler and, to a lesser, non-sexual extent, Donna Noble and the Tyler family. The Doctor shuddered. No; I’m decidedly not attracted to Donna. Nope, nada, pas du tout. Jackie even less! On one hand, James was not surprised; this incarnation was literally born out of the desires to protect the ones he loved — Rose most of all. On the other hand, the ferocity and singularity of his human hormones completely disarmed him. All it took was a quick, mental memory of a nineteen-year-old Rose Tyler dressed in a beautiful black sequin and burgundy gown for the half-Time Lord to be swept away in imagining every possible position and manner in which the young blonde would have begged him for more. Just them. No Sheep-shagger. Then again, the Doctor thought nastily, the Cowboy could watch beg me and how I’d oblige.  
  
As an experiment, he tried to imagine Sarah Jane Smith, Martha, Peri, Grace, Charley, Jo, Romana, Bernice, Reinette, Joan, Astrid, Jake, Jack, River, his wife on Gallifrey, and even Mickey the Idiot. Though he experienced more arousal from imagining River, Jack, Grace, Bernice, and Charley — in that order — he remembered them all fondly, like previous relationships where a connection had been formed, but Time had effectively severed its intensity. He loved them all; each had shaped him, paved the way for this him. But thanks to Time and his predecessor, Rose was like fire in his veins. She still ran like the wind in the sun and he was the most devoted worshipper of Helios.   
  
His heart ached dully when he remembered the previous four days’ events. Rose tolerated him at best and loathed him at worst. Yet aboard the TARDIS, she gave him a gorgeous teeth-touched smile on average one hundred fifty-six times per day — more if he took her to an exotic planet full of mystery and danger. The Doctor coveted those smiles whilst rationalising his interest as a mere study of human behavioural psychology. After three years without her and five years without him, he recognised Rose and was even able to anticipate some of her actions. If the Doctor was honest with himself, and he was only beginning to take that particular path, he had been too afraid to act, so he made Rose chase him. That was their relationship: The Oncoming Storm ran, the Bad Wolf pursued. But since Norway, she seemed less willing to chase, especially when she had a Sheep-shagger, and one that was too eager to stay at her side instead of simply shagging sheep. Now that she knew of River Song’s existence and her future role in the Other’s life, James calculated that there was a 0.01267% chance that she would chase him in their future — and that hundredth of a percent chance was pure optimism.  
  
James turned off the now-cold water and stepped out of the shower. Grabbing a brown bath sheet, he mechanically dried himself off, then dropped it on the floor and changed into a clean grey Star Wars tee-shirt, black pants with a little-green-men motif, a gift from Jackie a few months previous, and black and blue striped cotton jimjam bottoms. His face displayed roughly two days’ worth of hair, but he left it, too tired to shave. The Doctor exited the en-suite to the sitting room, where Donna and Daph were watching Bird Planet on the television.   
  
“Shaun says hello; he’s looking over O’Reilly’s case file. Somehow, it was already waiting for him. He’ll stop by later, if that’s okay. I ordered a veggie pizza,” greeted Donna. She was wearing spectacles and distractedly stroking Daph’s fur, causing the cat to relax and purr softly.   
  
“The more the merrier,” said the Doctor weakly. He approached the space on the sofa next to Donna and the cat. Taking precautions not to touch or disturb the Tosser, James sat down dejectedly, put on his black-rimmed spectacles which he actually needed later in the day and stared blankly at the telly. Daph lifted his head in inquiry at the Doctor, who bit out, “Cold day in hell, Tosser.” Growling and flashing his canine, Daph went back to sleep, putting his paws over his folded ears.   
  
Donna turned to the morose half-alien and raised a sceptical eyebrow. “What’s with you?”  
  
“Nothing,” he bit out, willing the redhead to drop the subject.  
  
“Doctor,” she insisted gently, but firmly. “Whatever it is, keeping it bottled up inside hasn’t helped you. I can tell.”  
  
The Doctor looked at her and smiled manically, shrugging. “Oh, not much. Bad day, bad case, the usual,” he said self-deprecatingly. Donna did not reply, but merely observed him. He sighed to himself; no Donna in any universe would have been satisfied with his response.  
  
“Bollocks,” replied Donna.   
  
The alien stared back, silently regretting that his people’s telepathy was limited to touch. Mentally griping about the damned stubborn humans, the Doctor opted for the half-truth approach. “I’m missing memories,” he replied. Before Donna could prod him further, the Doctor suddenly yelled, “Eureka!” Much to the redhead and cat’s confusion, the half-alien ran into his bedroom-workshop. Donna and an irascible Daph walked to the small hallway where they heard metal rattling, several plastic thuds, a few swears in several unknown languages echoing from the man in question and finally, an “Aha!” A moment later, the Doctor exited the room, carrying several circuit board-like apparatuses, pieces of gold and platinum, the ends of metres-long wire that trailed behind him and a banana in his mouth. He ran to the modern, glass and metal table and dropped his equipment onto the table top with loud clatters, creating a loud clutter. Daph meowed in annoyance. Banana still in his mouth, the Doctor started to work on one circuit board, attaching wires, bits and bobs.   
  
“Doctor, what the hell are you doing?” demanded Donna.   
  
The Doctor mumbled excitedly, the banana interfering with comprehension. At Donna’s irritated look, he repeated his original sentence, willing her to understand.   
  
“Is it customary to talk Alien with a banana in your mouth?” she growled.  
  
Rolling his eyes, James unceremoniously spat the unpeeled yellow banana on the table top. “I’m building an arch-memory anti-inhibitor.”  
  
“Earth girl,” said the redhead, pointing to herself. Pointing downward, she used the same impatient tone, “Cat.”  
  
“It’ll hopefully unscramble any memory blocks or the like. It’s designed for … my people,” murmured James quietly, setting to work.   
  
“Okay, I can see that with the bits and bobs. But the banana?”  
  
James looked back up, confused at the question. “What? Bananas are good and I’ve not eaten in almost two days.” He peeled back the skin and bit into the fruit. Donna merely stared, searching for a proper reply when she spied the shiny metals. She moved next to the Doctor, fingering the gold. “Doctor, this is pure gold!” Daph jumped up atop the table, poking at the circuit boards and miscellany.   
  
“Oi, Tosser! Not a kitty toy!” he yelled at Daph, who stretched, yawned and continued his investigation. “What ...?“ He glanced at the object that Donna had picked up and held to the light. “Oh, that’s not gold. That’s super-polished uranilium. Best conductor in the universe — well, on this side of the universe.”  
  
“Uranium?!” screeched Donna, dropping the metal. “You’re bonkers! Why the hell would you have uranium in your apartment? That’s, like, radioactive! Bloody hell, now we’re gonna get searched!”  
  
“Oi, careful!” yelled James in response. “It’s not uranium, but uranilium! It’s totally harmless. Well,” he glared at Daph, “except for feline tossers.”  
  
Donna picked up Daph and scratched his ears. “Don’t pay him mind, Daph. He’s the tosser!” Daph purred gratefully, his tail curling around Donna’s wrist in ecstasy. The Doctor did not acknowledge either of them, still busy connecting and fusing his new device. “This will only work with a large power source,” he mumbles. James looked up at the human and cat uneasily. “I’d hoped that the TARDIS would be ready by now. She’ll still an infant.”   
  
“What’s a TARDIS?” asked Donna, still petting the Marquis.  
  
James froze, regular screwdriver in hand. Waves of guilt and self-loathing consumed him like flame. Moments before the other TARDIS — their TARDIS — disappeared forever from Pete’s World, he heard one last, ominous thought from the Other: “Donna’s next.” James knew, as well as the Doctor had, that Donna’s human mind would not be able to withstand the pressure of a Time Lord’s immense consciousness. It was a transplant gone wrong, a chimera; had she, like James, been born with it, she would have survived and even flourished as the most brilliant human who had ever lived. But it was not to be. Universe Prime’s Donna was the price for his existence and for their wish: he needed Donna’s DNA and heart to remain the same; Donna needed his mind to save the universe.   
  
Yet his interference caused her death — would he allow her to die again?   
  
“Ah, it’s what I call my…plant. Alien and what not,” he finally replied.   
  
Donna regarded him sceptically, raising a red eyebrow in disbelief. For a mind so quick with a retort, especially to his cat, she noticed how long — fifteen seconds — it took him to formulate a response. She was certain that the alien was lying; thanks to the science-fiction film marathons on the telly that Shaun, her dad and Gramps made her watch every bank holiday, she knew every Venusian needed a spaceship or a death ray. Based on his personality, Donna guessed the former. But unwilling to press the skittishly manic alien any further, she decided to hold her tongue; she would get it out of him eventually. Donna hummed noncommittally, looking at the Marquis, who seemed to buy his answer as much as she did.   
  
Suddenly, there was a strong knock at the door. Still toting the cat, Donna moved to the entrance and called out, “Who is it?”  
  
“A rather handsome pizza man here to deliver…uh…pizza,” replied the voice.   
  
Donna smiled. “Are you sure that it’s a handsome pizza man? I want credentials.”  
  
“Oi, Donna! Just open the door, yeah?!” whinged the man. Donna rolled her eyes and opened the door to a tired, wet Shaun Temple, who was carrying a black leather briefcase in one hand and two large pizza boxes in the other. Putting the cat down, Donna greeted her husband with a firm kiss on the lips whilst taking the pizza from him. Breaking the kiss, Shaun pouted, “I knew you were just after dinner!”  
  
“Damn straight,” snorted Donna as she placed the pizza on the coffee table. “Cleaning up Spaceman’s messes makes me hungry.” James glared at her in response.  
  
“Oi! Like my job’s any easier? Next time, you catch the pizza man and pay, yeah?” protested Shaun. He looked up at their alien audience, then extended his hand in greeting. “You must be James Noble,” he said quizzically. “I’m curious how you share the same name as Donna. Anyway, pleased to make your acquaintance.”  
  
The Doctor took the man’s hand gingerly. “I’m the Doctor. Well, that’s what I like to be called.” At Shaun’s raised eyebrow, the Doctor coughed nervously. “Long story. Anyway, you’ve got O’Reilly file?”  
  
Shaun nodded, removing his charcoal grey raincoat and putting it on the coat rank in the corner by the door. “Yeah, though I’m afraid I can’t tell you much. It’s privileged.” At Donna’s and the Doctor’s reflective silence, he took the opportunity to steal a slice of vegetable pizza with extra cheese — just how he liked it. Donna also took a slice.  
  
The Doctor spoke first. “What can you say?”  
  
Shaun shrugged whilst chewing his second bite. A moment later, he answered, “Just that he’ll be charged and extradition will proceed. It’ll depend whether France or Sweden will assume responsibility for prosecution. Since I am not authorised to practise in either country, he’ll need a barrister specialising in international law. I’m looking into it.”  
  
“Well,” replied the Doctor, “we need a reason for him to say in Great Britain.”  
  
Shaun shook his head. “Whilst I can’t give particulars, and I’m not even supposed to say this at all, Agent O’Reilly is in serious trouble. Let’s just say that his military file has a lot of black ink and blanks in it. The very fact that he’s unrecognisable will not be in his favour. I’ll need to speak with him, of course, but it doesn’t look good. Staying in Britain will be impossible, to put it mildly.” Picking up the pizza box, he offered it to the Doctor, who reluctantly took a slice of the pizza.   
  
“Oh, good,” interjected Donna, “Skinny Boy keeps forgettin’ to eat. Kate Moss, only weirder.”  
  
“Oi!” growled James, taking another bite. “I’m not a junker, ta.”   
  
Shaun chewed thoughtfully on the remnants of his pizza, observing his wife and her boss engage in verbal sparring. Rarely was Donna Noble ever in a tie. He smirked, as he spied something blue-grey, soft and furry jump stealthily onto the coffee table. The three watched in shock and, for Shaun especially, amusement, as the Marquis, carrying a slice of pizza in his mouth, jumped down and settled in a spot several metres away from the irritated Doctor. Scratching off the spinach, mushrooms, olives and peppers like undesirables in his litter pan, Daph greedily and guiltlessly ate at the remaining cheese.   
  
“Belle doesn’t do that,” remarked Shaun. “What’s your cat’s name?”  
  
“Tosser,” growled the Doctor. The cat glared at him with bright orange eyes as he chewed a gob of mozzarella.  
  
“Daph,” corrected Donna.   
  
“Daph?”  
  
“Donatien Alphonse François,” mumbled the Doctor.   
  
Shaun looked at the Doctor in horror. “That’s rather cruel, naming your cat after the Marquis de Sade!”  
  
“He isn’t my cat,” protested the half-alien, “I’m just taking him in until his owners find a flat in London. They’re staying with the Tylers and, lucky me, Jackie’s allergic!”  
  
“Sure,” Donna coughed into her hand in an attempt not to laugh.  
  
A loud burp interrupted the exchange; three pairs of eyes scanned each other in confusion and silent accusation, then cast downward at the content animal who had stretched out on his side next to his half-finished slice. Donna stared, Shaun surreptitiously gave Daph thumbs-up and the Doctor rolled his eyes. “Bloody rude!” grumbled the latter.   
  
Both husband and wife chuckled as the Doctor glared at his “guests” and the cat. Swearing to himself in Gallifreyan, he picked up his second slice and jammed the end in his mouth. He returned to his project on the table whilst Shaun, on his third piece, turned up the volume on the telly. Upon catching Donna’s warning glare, the man gave the Doctor an apologetic look and asked sheepishly, “Sorry, mate. D’you mind?” The Doctor, without glancing at either Donna or Shaun, gestured at the telly with his left hand as he continued screwing in a piece of his apparatus.   
  
_"… the new Swedish Chargé d'affaires to France, His Excellency, Mr Karl Björnstjerna, replacement of the Swedish Ambassador killed in the bombing, gave a brief press conference:  
  
'Four days ago, I lost several friends and colleagues in a cruel, cowardly act by extremists whom we all are too familiar with in today's world. I am confident that, thanks to the commitment and thorough work by the French gendarmerie, Interpol, Torchwood and the Säkerhetspolisen, we will not rest until we find and arrest the perpetrators…’"_  
  
The Doctor froze, dropping the utensil in his right hand haphazardly onto the table. Daph jumped to his four feet and growled loudly. “That voice. Donna, I know that voice. The Swedish Chargé.” Before Donna could reply, the Doctor let out a prolonged and frustrated “Agh!” whilst grabbing the fringes of his hair.   
  
_Mischling… Din död kommer snart !_  
  
James’s eyes widened, his mind racing through the possibilities, timelines and outcomes, cold sweat pouring down his brow. Donna and Shaun watched uneasily as brown orbs changed to coal black.  
  
 _Mischling, din död kommer snart och jag ska ha Gyllene !_ rasped the voice that had crawled inside the Doctor’s mind. Suddenly, the alien found himself alone in a pitch black room surrounded by a sickly grey skull and its rotting flesh.   
  
“Vem är du?” James screamed again and again as the voice laughed manically. The darkness seemed to extend infinitely in all directions; he perceived nothing except the skull and the laughter of the voice interlaced with the same Swedish again and again, Mischling… Din död kommer snart ! For hours, he stood shivering in the same spot until exhaustion and fear vainquished his human body and, like an old tree, James came crashing down to damp, black ground. Like quicksand and oil, it permeated his clothes and pulled him underneath; he struggled in vain, screaming for help and scratching outward for any sort of leverage.   
  
_Doctor!_ echoed a woman’s voice.   
  
“Donna!” he screamed. As he fought against the black quicksand-like oil, the Doctor tried turning his head toward the sound of Donna’s voice.   
  
_Doctor!_  
  
The voice came from below the surface, clearly as if spoken in air. Yet all of his survival instincts enjoined him to fight and stay above the liquid.   
  
_Doctor!_  
  
The Doctor willed his mind to push aside the fear and think. Should he trust the voice or was it another of the Chargé’s mind tricks? Did he have Donna as well? Where was Rose?   
  
Think, think, think!   
  
As he became lost in thought, James noticed that his body was floating on the slick. His eyes widened. “This thing plays on basic fears and survival instincts,” he noted in the darkness. Relaxing his body, he extended his arms and allowed the darkness to consume him.


	36. Chapter 36: Missing

**Missing**

 

Doctor James Noble pushed his brown eyes open, panting for air. He found that his head was lying on one of his multi-coloured sofa cushions and a blue-grey mass of fur draped over his torso like a small blanket. Wild brown met bright and slanted orange; half-human lips parted in surprise as cat tooth gleamed cheekily against lamp light.  
  
"Blimey," gasped the Doctor, carefully watching the Tosser stretch his arms like a Sphinx across the upper half of the Doctor's chest.  
  
"Bloody hell, Doctor! Are you alright?" cried Donna, who was leaning over his body. "You just fell! Lucky that you didn't hit your head against the table!" Shaun stood perfectly still a distance away and stared at both Donna and the Doctor, phone in hand.  
  
"I'm fine, I think," replied the Doctor, feeling his head for injury. Since he had regenerated into mortal form, he had to literally feel for external or internal injury. As he tried to bend forward to rise to his feet, Daph hissed loudly and locked his sharp claws into the Doctor's tee-shirt, his spit spraying on his chest. The Doctor growled back in argumentative Cat, then leant back quizzically. "I can't bloody understand this cat! I mean, I literally can't understand him. I'm bloody fluent in five billion languages, give or take a couple hundred thousand, and I can't figure out what he's saying." The half-alien narrowed his eyes at the Tosser and enunciated loudly, "Speak — correct — Cat — you — catified - plum!" Once again, Daph hissed loudly and spat globs of saliva at his captive. The Doctor blinked, reaching angrily to wipe cat spit from his cheek.  
  
Donna rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. The Doctor looked up at the redhead's husband who had not moved at all during the exchange. "What's wrong with him?"  
  
The redhead waived her hand. "Him? Nothing."  
  
"You're an alien!" Shaun screeched. Both James and Donna turned toward him in response. "D-Donna, he's a bloody alien!"  
  
"Like I said, nothing," said Donna, again facing James. At his raised eyebrow, she huffed, "I had to tell him! He wanted to call 999 when you collapsed and turned green. What was I supposed to do? Allow a real alien dissection?! Doctor James Noble, the Betamax Special!"  
  
After a moment, James nodded. "I suppose you're right. Wait, I turned green?!"  
  
"Yeah, just for a second. Is that what colour your blood is? Green? Like Spock?" asked Donna.  
  
"No!" shouted the Doctor indignantly. "First, I'm not Mr Spock. Second, my blood's the same colour as yours, just a bit more orange. Third," he continued, pointing to his head, "I'm not bleeding!"  
  
"How the hell should I know?" responded the redhead hotly, "I'm not an expert in EBEs! Anyway, you turned green."  
  
The Doctor paused in thought. There were only a few things medically that could physically turn a Time Lord's pallor green: Aqua Regia poisoning, lutefisk, pears, an impaired immune system or a violated bond. Given that he had not, to his knowledge, ingested pear or rancid fish, and hydrochloric and nitric acids would have undoubtedly killed this body, the Doctor settled on one or both of the remaining possibilities. He gulped down an icy shiver; if he was manipulated in some way, Rose was certainly in danger. What he had done out of instinct in Paris was being turned against him in the worst manner.  
  
"Doctor? Earth calling ET!" shouted his companion's voice.  
  
"Right, sorry. The reasons behind my 'close encounter' are bad to worse. I don't have time to explain, but I need to get to Pete's mansion. The last thing I remember is the Swedish diplomat's voice. I'm telepathic, but a touch telepath. Only a very psychically powerful being could initiate contact with me and overload my system. Now, could you help get this bloody cat off me, please?" As Donna approached the feline, Daph turned his head vigorously and spat. She repeated the motion twice more, yielding the same response from the howling cat, before throwing up her hands in defeat.  
  
"I don't think he's gonna move, Doctor. Not without bloodshed," she concluded.  
  
"Blimey," growled James. Daph glared menacingly at both humanoids and stretched out impossibly further, covering the Doctor's upper body. Donna backed away to stand next to her petrified husband. Rolling her eyes, she smacked Shaun in the gut, shaking him from his fixed position.  
  
"D-Donna, he's an alien!"  
  
It was the Doctor's turn to roll his eyes irritably. "Yes, nice to meet you, Earthling. Now, get this fucking cat off me!" Daph snarled in reply, firmly latching claws into cloth. The humans moved to the cat's position; the Scottish Fold snorted, his tail flipping excitedly, and quickly swiped at Shaun, who automatically recoiled to avoid the cat's organic knives.  
  
"Maybe we should, you know, offer him something?" suggested Shaun.  
  
"Like what?!" cried James. "Me bollocks?"  
  
"Well," Donna began, "he could be irritated that this isn't a cat-friendly flat. No cat treats, no catnip, no cat box!" Daph glared pointedly at the Doctor.  
  
"Alright, fair enough. He could just use newspaper until tomorrow morning. I'm not exactly able to move at the moment." If only I had the TARDIS, the Doctor lamented to himself, I could toss him out of the airlock! The cat sank his claws into the Doctor's skin, piercing it. "Ow! Alright, alright, I apologise!" Daph yawned, making no attempt to move. He tilted his large head up to Shaun and growled.  
  
"What does he want?" inquired Donna's husband. The Marquis hissed loudly and yowled his complaint. "Right, I think he wants it now," he squeaked. He practically ran into the kitchen and shouted, "Doctor, where do you keep the newspaper?"  
  
James paused, biting his lip nervously. "Um, actually, I don't think I've any. Let the Marquis wait until he moves." He turned to stare viciously at the cat, "That's what you get for taking hostages!"  
  
Donna shook her head exasperatedly; she exited the sitting room and, holding up a finger, entered the Doctor's bedroom. James frantically tried to contort his body toward the room whilst pacifying the irate feline atop him who had begun to raise his striking paw. His head sank dejectedly into the cushion, closing his eyes in silent humiliation as he heard Donna lift the mattress and pull out his stash of magazines. A minute later, she returned with a proud, amused smirk. James scowled at Donna, wordlessly pleading and warning her to say nothing. The former HR manager just grinned evilly. "Oi, I've got some kitty paper for you, Daph. Let's see," she began, sorting the magazines, "we have _Barbarella, Star Prick, Lord of the G-Strings, Spermula: The Comic, Eating A Blondie, Spacebolloxxx, Blondes et Bites,_ another _Ma blonde en bobette,_ and my personal favourite, _E.T.: The Extra Tit._ I think we might be seein' a pattern here. And some blondes with furries, too."  
  
A tomato-flushed James moaned incomprehensibly, throwing his arm over his face. Shaun returned to his wife's side, peering inquisitively and appreciatively over her shoulder at the numerous, barely to unclothed blondes. She twisted her head to him and yelled, "Oi!"  
  
Shaun frowned at his wife. "What? I think there's a Tesco just round the corner. Should be open and have, ahem, cat boxes," he said, avoiding Donna's furtive gaze whilst surreptitiously ogling the images in the magazine.  
  
"Nice thought, Shaun, but in case you haven't noticed, I'm being held hostage by the Tosser!" retorted the Doctor through his arm. "Donna, will you…?  
  
"Oh no!" interrupted the woman. "Bloody hell, Doctor, you're like a child! I've cleaned your flat, including your kitchen, which was one big science experiment, and took you shopping for clothes. I told ya, I'm no minder. You took the cat, you're responsible for him."  
  
"I would, but the Tosser has decided that I'm to remain here for an unspecified time! For a Time Lord!" shouted the Doctor, suddenly filled with rage. "I was just fucking mind-fucked by some Swedish E.T. and now I have to debate both you and the bloody Tosser about cat boxes! Ain't that wizard?!"  
  
Donna opened and closed her mouth, staring at the angry half-Gallifreyan whose chest lifted and dropped the equally irritated cat. Though she had only known him for a few days, Donna felt drawn not only to his inherent charisma, but his singular loneliness that seemed to follow him like a dark shadow. How could such an intelligent and handsome bloke be so lonely? Whilst Donna Noble knew little about extra-terrestrials, the honed gut instinct that had served her so well told her that like human men, Doctor James Noble tinkered, repaired and ogled magazines in isolation out of fear and self-reproach. Anger and seclusion masked fear.  
  
He was like looking in a mirror.  
  
She took a deep breath and said calmly, "You're right, Doctor. I'm sorry. I'll go to Tesco, alright?"  
  
Taking the Doctor's silence as agreement, Donna went to search for her coat and purse, Shaun quickly approached his wife and put his hand warmly on her arm. As she looked at him quizzically, he spoke softly, "I'll go, love. You stay with the Doctor."  
  
"You sure?" she asked in an equally hushed tone.  
  
He nodded. "Yeah." He gestured to the alternatively petrified and energised man and cat on the sofa with a tilt of his head. "He needs you. You saw what happened when he heard that thing's voice; of the two of us, I think you're the best one for the job. He trusts you and I have no experience with aliens."  
  
"Me neither, Shaun!" she hissed, her eyes shifting nervously.  
  
Putting on his raincoat and checking his pocket for his billfold, he smiled faintly. "I think, of all of us, you're the one who can. Just a tic." Before she could reply, he hurriedly pecked his wife on the cheek and left the flat.  
  
Donna stood still facing the closed door. A moment later, she heard a weak male murmur echo in the sitting room, "This is all new to me, you know? I used to…I prided myself on controlling my emotions. If I didn't want to feel something, I didn't. But now, I'm like a mermaid — a merman, in my case — beached."  
  
The redhead spun around to face the brown-eyed whose ancient eyes contrasted against the smooth, young beige and pink of his face. Her rose-coloured lips twitched sympathetically. "Us humans are all beached in some way, I suppose." She moved to sit directly in front of him on the coffee table, dropping the magazines on the floor between the sofa and the table. "Doctor, you've been — as you put it — mind-fucked. Violated. That's neither your fault, nor is it something that you have to control. The control's been taken from you. But what we can do is find who's responsible."  
  
The Doctor gulped. "Maybe I deserve it."  
  
"How in the bloody hell do you deserve it?" demanded Donna.  
  
Silence once again fell upon the flat. James turned his head away from his parallel companion and swallowed harshly. His tenor fell into an imperceptible whisper; Donna managed to recognise only one word — Rose.  
  
"What about Rose?" she inquired.  
  
"Blimey, how long does it take to get cat litter?" whinged the Doctor, ignoring Donna's question. Abruptly, Daph rose and re-arranged himself on the Doctor's chest, moving his rear centimetres from the alien's face, and settled back down for a kip. His medium-length tail tickled James's nose and shed several cat hairs in his mouth. Donna tried not to laugh at the inconvenienced Doctor exhaling cat hair. "This is why I've never had a cat!" he glowered. Daph simply wagged his tail gracefully over the Gallifreyan's face.  
  
"Doctor," said Donna in a serious tone, "should you even be working for Torchwood? This is, to my knowledge, the second traumatic incident within all of a week's time. You may not be human, but you're not immune for traumatic stress, either."  
  
"Donna…!" warned James.  
  
"Doctor!" she answered in an equal tone. "I'm not stupid. There are things you're not telling me — any of us — about what this thing is because you're afraid or we'll be afraid. But obviously, you're in no condition to play the hero."  
  
Angered, the Doctor tried to push Daph off his chest, only to yell in pain at the sharp, pinching sensation of cat canines puncturing the skin of his forearm and rear-paw claws latching onto his shirt. The frustrated captive sank back into the sofa cushions and swallowed emotionally. The Marquis forced out a "Murph!" and settled back into his kip. "Donna, I don't have time to debate this with you! People, this whole planet are in danger, and it's up to me to stop it. It always is."  
  
"Why?" asked Donna sceptically. "Doctor, what if there's a third time? How helpful could you be to Torchwood?"  
  
"As opposed to what?" he hissed. "Sitting around, doing nothing? Drink cheap wine, eat Shepherd's Pie and watch telly as the world comes to its bloody end?"  
  
Donna grumbled crossly and stood to loom over the man and his cat. "For all of the supposed wisdom that aliens have, you don't seem to see the forest from the trees. I didn't say that we should do nothing, but I do question if you alone can do it! We humans may have a lot to learn, but we're not children. We've survived millions of years, even partly as Neanderthals, without your help. You may have the knowledge of what we're dealing with, but it overpowered you."  
  
James paused uneasily. "That's just it, Donna. It overpowered me," he said quietly. "Even being part-human, that's very hard to do. And I do mean very hard. There are species in the universe whose telepathic abilities are superior to my people's, but it is exceptionally rare to encounter them. Aliens with high-magnitude ability tend to avoid planets like Earth because — no offence — you lot broadcast your thoughts like Twitter. Imagine being surrounded by billions of Justin Biebers."  
  
"Rude!" gasped Donna.  
  
"Not ginger," finished the Doctor. "You get my point. There are incredibly telepathic beings who can manipulate the mind and perception."  
  
"Is that what we're dealing with? A sort of a Svengali?"  
  
The Doctor did not answer. At his companion's silent insistence, he gazed at her with intense, black eyes.  
  
Donna's blue eyes seemed to shudder against the lamp light. "How do we stop it?" she whispered.  
  
"I need my phone!" said the Doctor abruptly, hand outstretched.  
  
Sensing its importance and indulging in personal curiosity, Donna acquiesced, grabbing James's Vitexphone next to the bits and bobs on the dining room table and handing it to the captive on the couch. Daph opened one orange eye to observe Donna's actions. His tail twitched, curling into a question mark whilst tickling the Doctor's nose. "Bloody Tosser!" emanated from the half-alien's lips as he accessed the memory banks to his newly acquired phone from Pete Tyler. He smiled in victory upon verifying that the speed dial "1" was indeed the correct telephone number. He punched the "1" on the keypad and held the video screen to the uncovered parts of his face. Donna leant to read the blue screen — Dialling Rose Tyler. After ten seconds, Rose's voice answered, "Hello, you've reached Agent Rose Tyler, Torchwood. I'm not able to talk at the moment. Please leave your name and number, and I'll return your call presently."  
  
"Damn it, answer!" he swore loudly. He jammed the "1" again, only to achieve the same result ten seconds later. James muttered several English and Gallifreyan swear words before pressing the "2" on his phone — Dialling Pete Tyler. The Doctor exhaled roughly when the screen changed from blue to an empty office. "Hello?" he spoke, though no one was shown in the screen to respond.  
  
Unexpectedly, a little strawberry-haired, miniature version of Pete Tyler appeared, waiving to the camera. He was dressed in multi-coloured jimjams decorated with rocket ships and holding a Marvel action figure of Iron Man. James grinned brightly despite the dire situation. "Tony Tyler!" he greeted. "How are you?"  
  
The boy's blue-green eyes shifted sadly away from the camera and he started to fidget with the figure in his hand.  
  
"Not good, eh?" inquired the Doctor. "Listen, Tony, we'll play soon, yeah? We still have to finish that Mario Kart match we started a while back. But could I talk to your dad?" At Tony's pout and upset look, the Doctor quickly added, "Please? I'll be there tomorrow, yeah?" The little boy reluctantly nodded. As he picked up the phone to bring it to his father, the Doctor heard a female voice echo, "Anthony Alan Tyler! It's past your bedtime and you've got school for another couple of days!" The phone screen froze as the Doctor cringed and an amused Donna observed passively from off-camera.  
  
"What've you got there? And upstairs with you!" demanded the voice. The phone raised to reveal Jackie Tyler in pink silk jimjams and designer dressing gown, her medium-length treated blonde hair pulled back from her face. "Doctor!" she greeted with a mixture of delight and testiness, "I'm glad you rang, but Tony's going to bed now. Can't it wait?"  
  
The Doctor gulped. When it came to Rose's safety, he would much rather talk to the Director rather her mother. Jackie was overprotective — to say the least — of her daughter, having crossed dimensions herself to reclaim her errant eldest child, not to mention slapping him for his poor driving skills and threatening to kill him on several different occasions. "Um," he began, "sorry to disturb. Torchwood business, Jackie. Could I talk to Pete?" James affected his most polite smile.  
  
He also knew that Jackie was nosey.  
  
Jackie narrowed her hazel eyes at the alien and pointed a manicured fingernail at the screen. "If you've got manners, then something's been cocked up. What's really going on? Dinner was a bloody circus, with Rose's attitude and Pete's silence."  
  
Feeling Donna's hot glare and the ever-present cat tail tickle his nose, he murmured, "Can I please talk to Pete?"  
  
"I'm hanging up, Doctor. Good night!"  
  
As she was about to press the red button to end the call, he called out desperately, "Don't hang up! Rose didn't answer her phone, not even to hang up on me."  
  
Jackie frowned and, talking to the phone whilst walking toward the staircase, replied, "That's a bit odd. She went upstairs after dinner; I haven't seen her since." The elder woman quickly ascended the staircase, loudly calling Rose's name. Like an irate general, Jackie marched down the hallway to Rose's room. The Doctor watched Jackie knock on the white door and listened to her yell her daughter's name. Finally, she opened the door to show an empty room.  
  
"Pete!" she screamed. "Oh, my God, Doctor, she's not here!" she began to wail.  
  
James closed his eyes in panic and annoyance. "Okay, right, Jackie. Everything'll be fine. Just put Pete on the line." The dropped for a moment, then Pete reappeared in the screen, dressed in an old brown dressing gown and jimjams, with the three French youths and Tony barely visible in the left corner.  
  
"Doctor," Pete greeted. Though he attempted to maintain a calm presence for Jackie and Tony's sake, both the Doctor and Donna could see the worry lines marring his brow.  
  
"Pete, Rose is in danger. I don't know where she is, but we've got a problem: a Swedish chargé."  
  
The elder man frowned. "You mean Minister Björnstjerna, the man that Rose rescued? What about him?"  
  
"He's been in my head, which means he's been in Rose's head. Is she there?" demanded the Doctor.  
  
Pete glared at him and raised an eyebrow reminiscent of the quizzical look of a certain blonde. "Aside from begging the question as to how in the hell you're in her mind, the equally worrisome fact is that, no, she's not here." Glancing briefly toward a frightened and enraged Jackie Tyler, he inhaled and swallowed his own anxiety and anger. "I'm coming to your flat, Doctor. I'll handle this myself…" A blurred blue-grey image appeared on Pete's screen; he heard a grumble and an almost Scottish lilted "You fuckin' bastart!" from the Doctor.  
  
"Doctor?" asked Pete.  
  
James's exasperated face reappeared a moment later. "Yes, sorry. Technical difficulties." At Pete's raised eyebrow, he glowered, "Our guests' cat!" The Doctor rolled his eyes at a woman's cackle from off-camera.  
  
The Director coughed to avoid laughing at his subordinate. "Give me thirty minutes; I need to dress and phone Jake to mind Torchwood from base. See you soon."  
  
  


***

  
  
  
Pete pressed the red button on his Vitexphone and speed-dialled another number, holding up a finger to the inevitable onslaught of questions from his wife. "Oui, bonsoir, Olivier."  
  
A tired Olivier Jean-Baptiste appeared on the screen. Pete noticed immediately that the normally collected agent looked extremely tense; he had a full day's growth on his face and his comportment, habitually neat, was rumpled and dirty. He nodded instead of his usual greeting, which meant that he would only talk in secure channels. The Torchwood Director quickly ended the call and marched down the corridor and grand wooden staircase, Jackie hot on his heels after him.  
  
"Oi, where do you think you're going?" cried the woman. "You need to find Rose instead of playin' your spy games!"  
  
Her husband whirled around angrily to face his wife at the foot of the stairs. Jackie stepped back in shock at the uncharacteristic display of emotion by the level-headed man. "Jacks," he bit out, "now is definitely not the time to argue! You heard the Doctor — this man was in his head. He's a bloody Time Lord, so that means that our new friend and invitee from the Swedish Embassy to our Christmas Party is a dangerous entity who may have been responsible for Paris. An entity who may have Rose!" he shouted. "My spy games, as you call them, are our only hope!" At his wife's shocked and trembling form, he used his empty hand to enfold her into his warm embrace. "Don't worry, Jacks. The Doctor and I, we'll bring her back safe."  
  
Though still shaking, Jackie sniffed, "Let me come with you. She's my daughter, Pete."  
  
Pete shook his head. "No, Jacks. You've got to stay here with Tony and the others. Besides, I have a feeling that this American bloke who tried to kill the Doctor, Pierre, Claire and Ahmad will soon make another appearance. I'm sending Jake over, but you've gotta protect them." She closed her eyes and whispered her agreement, realising that they would be completely vulnerable if left alone. With his finger, he tenderly raised her chin to kiss her lips. A moment later, Pete smiled tightly. "Right then. I have to use a secure line to Paris. Then I'll be off to the Doctor's flat." Then he turned to enter his study and closed the door. Walking hurriedly to his desk, he pressed a button on the surface.  
  
"Greetings, Pete. Access code?" asked a female computerised voice.  
  
"Alpha-tango-charlie-zed-zed-iota-five-seven-three-six-four-three-alpha-phi-phi-phi-enable."  
  
"Access granted. How may I serve you?"  
  
"Suri, call Olivier Jean-Baptiste. Alpha One Clearance; binary-ten encryption."  
  
The black screen showed a long string of encrypted information; five seconds later, Olivier materialised on phone. "Sorry, mon ami, but this needed to be on secure channels."  
  
"Of course, Olivier, what's wrong?"  
  
"I've been trying to reach you. Our American friend is missing. Somehow, he escaped from our location. But that's not what's the most troubling. We found Linus Magnussen's body in his place. He is, this time, most assuredly dead," reported Olivier. "We've searched Paris for him, but nothing. Nothing in Brussels, either."  
  
Pete chewed on his bottom lip. "Which means he's on his way to London."  
  
"Or is already there," concluded Olivier. "Are they safe?"  
  
"Yes; Pierre, Claire and Ahmad are at my house. Your cat," he smirked, "is living with the Doctor, as both Jackie and Tony are allergic."  
  
Olivier howled with laughter. "Oh, putain, even in these circumstances, that is funny." He clapped with glee until he observed that Pete was not joining in with him. His expression became one of dread. "Something's happened."  
  
The Briton moved his head slightly. "Rose is missing. Olivier, the Doctor's waiting so I can't spare a moment. I need another favour."  
  
"Anything," said the Haitian.  
  
"Do you have anything on Karl Björnstjerna? I believe he may be behind the bombing and Rose's disappearance. He was the diplomat whom Rose rescued."  
  
Olivier raised his shoulders in a Gallic shrug. "The de-facto Ambassador? I'll check with the Sûreté. If not, we'll ask the Americans. The Department of State's servers are always of assistance. I'll call again in 12 hours. A plus."  
  


***

  
  
An apprehensive silence reverberated throughout the Doctor's flat. Donna watched worriedly as the Doctor stared at his Vitexphone, ignoring the sleeping cat. The pair jumped, startled, as the flat door flew open for Shaun and his numerous recyclable bags that sparkled with rain water. Shutting the door with his foot, he set the bags down in front of Donna, the Doctor and Daph. Awakening from his slumber, Daph watched Shaun with interest as he took out a blue plastic litter pan, Fancy Cat dust-free cat litter, several cans of moist cat food, three small pouches of cat treats, a kilogramme of dry cat food and several feather and mouse cat toys. Daph glared at the litter pan and litter, then at the Doctor, who was eyeing him in return. Deciding to acquiesce this one time to the cat's demands in order to be ready in time for Pete's arrival, the Doctor rose from the sofa to collect the litter and cat box and carry them to the en-suite. The Marquis followed the Gallifreyan; he leapt atop the counter to supervise the humanoid's work. James set the litter pan and scoop in the empty corner, untwisted the lid of the plastic container of cat litter and poured it to the three-quarters mark.  
  
"Here, Tosser! Happy now?!" barked the Doctor. Daph jumped down from his perch; having inspected the litter, he climbed in the box to do his business. The Doctor exited the en-suite, about to breathe a sigh of relief, until he heard litter scraped, kicked and flung from the pan.  
  
"Bastard," he rumbled. He strode back to the sitting room, where Donna was drying off Shaun with a kitchen towel. "Uh, sorry. I should…" the Doctor gestured to the en-suite.  
  
"No, it's okay, actually," said Shaun. "Donna got most of it, I think."  
  
"Thank you for, you know, the — ahem — Cat Problem," replied the Doctor, tugging on his right ear.  
  
A brisk knock at the door interrupted Shaun's response. Being closest to the entrance, Donna demanded, "Who is it?"  
  
"It's Pete," said a muffled, masculine voice. Recognising him, Donna opened the door to an angry Pete Tyler dressed in black suit and white Oxford with no tie. "Doctor," he nodded in greeting, "Ms Noble." Then he glanced at Shaun. "You must be Shaun Temple. We'll need you."  
  
"Pete, what's going on?" inquired the Doctor, as he snatched his flat keys dangling from Donna's fingers.  
  
"The American bastard has escaped Paris. We think he may be heading to London," said Pete. "Rose's missing, Björnstjerna's possibly behind it, so that makes Agent O'Reilly our only connection. Since Mr Temple here is his lawyer, it's convenient that he comes with us."  
  
"Wait a moment!" interjected Shaun. "Yes, I'm his lawyer, but I represent his interests, not Torchwood's!"  
  
Pete carefully closed the distance to Shaun and spoke in a harsh tone. "Your client's boss, whomever he is, has my daughter! In public, I'm Pete Tyler, the Vitex CEO, but behind the scenes, I'm someone else, someone else entirely. Do we understand each other, Mr Temple?"  
  
"Now wait just a bloody minute!" shouted Donna, hotly approaching the Torchwood Director, but James moved swiftly in front of her before Pete could respond.  
  
"Shaun's a friend — he's Donna's husband! He's not the enemy — Björnstjerna is. As for John O'Reilly," he began menacingly, his eyes turning a stormy black, "it's just as well that Shaun's present. We'll need to interrogate him and we can't do that without his lawyer present. You know that," reasoned the Doctor to Pete. The Director merely nodded, not trusting his words. "Donna," he spun slowly to face the redhead, "you've got to go home. I don't want to leave you alone."  
  
"What about Daph? I doubt the American Psycho will spare felines as opposed to humans. No, I'm stayin' here," spoke Donna.  
  
"Donna — " James and Shaun began, but Pete cut them off with a wave of his phone.  
  
"I'll call Jake and have him send someone right over. I don't feel comfortable leaving her alone, either." Whilst Pete made the call to his second-in-command, Shaun tiredly put on his raincoat for the fourth time that day and retrieved his briefcase. He kissed his wife and held her, murmuring that he would see her soon. The Doctor strode purposefully to the coat rack in the corner nearest the door. Out of habit, he reached out for his black blazer, but a glint of shiny black stopped him. James retracted his hand and instead ripped the other coat off its hanger, almost cracking the wood. The Doctor slid comfortably into the black leather jacket, revelling in its angry and dangerous feel.


	37. Chapter 37: Devils and Dust

**Devils and Dust**

 

September 3, 1601, Prague, Holy Roman Empire  
  
A fatigued Johannes Kepler rubbed his dark brown eyes with slender, ink-stained fingers for the tenth time that evening. The brown-haired and bearded man growled in frustration; thanks to smallpox and misfortune, he was an astronomer who suffered from the affliction of having to examine paper and number at a close proximity. Tycho Brahe, the famed astronomer and his employer, expected significant progress on his tables for the following morning. A staple of rye and dark beer that his wife had impatiently thrown on his table remained untouched. Kepler was, to be honest, only too happy to choose his Danish lord over Barbara, a devoutly Lutheran, excitable woman who failed to see the significance of his astronomical work other than a lacklustre social standing dependent upon mercy of the Emperor and a foreigner. His in-laws, the wealthy Müllers, were not only unimpressed by "Herr Stargazer's" failure to secure real position and status for his family, but suspected that he was even less Lutheran than the Catholic Prague in which he lived. Complicating matters were the recent deaths of his first children, Heinrich and Susanna I, from unfortunately widespread infantile illnesses. When Johannes held his firstborn son in 1598, he foresaw the little boy following his father up the Czech hills at night to watch the meteor showers, then his graduation from the seminary at Tübingen as he had himself intended and finally, his marriage ceremony to a strong, young woman of good standing. His astrological chart promised the world a mechanically-minded mathematician. Instead, sixty days later, Kepler carried his son's corpse to the cemetery. Then his daughter, Susanna I, who was born the following year, lived only thirty-five days before succumbing to the same illness as her elder brother. When Kepler had no children to occupy him and no wife in whom he could confide his inner-most thoughts and beliefs, numbers became his friends, allies and family.  
  
Despite his current position as an assistant to Tycho Brahe, he hated astronomy. Whilst at Tübingen, he received his highest marks in mathematics, rhetoric and Greek, the subjects he thoroughly enjoyed, and his lowest in astronomy, partly from a lack of interest and partly from poor eyesight. Though he recognised its use in his own work toward a mathematical proof of Copernicus's system, Kepler found the work tedious and obsessed with unserviceable minutia. But Brahe, in an attempt to dissuade him from Copernicus's radical and 'mathematically despotic' ideas, was determined to make Kepler into his keenest astronomical observer. As much as the younger man loathed to admit it, the Danish scientist's method had trained him to consider physical as much as geometrical detail. _The laws of physics were universal._ The German reproached himself for his complaint; as Brahe's assistant, he was well-paid — or at least per their latest compromise. The working relationship was typical of a master and his student: love-hate. Using the proverbial carrot attached to a solid Scandinavian stick, Brahe titillated the younger mathematician with hints of his immense collection of astronomical data, though not all of his knowledge, nor all of the money he had promised, in order to use his wit and geometrical skill in trolling the more formulaic and grandiloquent Aristotelians. Johannes growled resentfully at his master, wiping his mouth with a sleeve of his worn, filthy brown astronomer's robe. Kepler wanted that data so badly that he often dreamt of breaking into the Dane's private chambers and stealing his books. This was what Barbara and her family failed to understand about his loyalty to Brahe's projects; whilst they prattled on about his position at the imperial court, he needed that data to become Europe's greatest living mathematician.  
  
But in the meanwhile, Kepler took his professional, personal and financial frustrations on the poor Aristotelian bastards that dared challenge him or Brahe on their anti-Ptolemaic leanings. Although Brahe and Kepler disagreed rather bitterly with respect to Copernicus's heliocentrism, they nevertheless expressed their mutual disapproval of the continued use of Ptolemy's flawed, millennium-old data that necessitated epicycles and other ludicrous, ad nauseam corrections to predict planetary trajectories within acceptable error. As such, Kepler wilfully destroyed Nicholas Reimers (called Ursus in Latin) after a years-long quarrel over Tycho's geo-heliocentric model, despite having sent his concitizen a laudatory letter of his model whilst applying for a position with his Danish rival a few years previous. Kepler considered himself neither treacherous nor dishonest, as Reimers's model was far less accurate than Brahe's, but he did need the latter's data.  
  
Perhaps it was just as well that he never became a Lutheran minister; he worried that his sense of uprightness was lacking if it was so easily compromised by astronomy.  
  
Suddenly, a firm knock sounded at his door. Rolling his eyes in annoyance, the German yelled, "For the last time, Barbara, I'm working! It can wait!"  
  
The door opened to reveal a young blond boy whom he recognised as one of Brahe's servants. "Sorry to bother you, Master, but Milord has summoned you. There's been an incident."  
  
The slender astronomer immediately put down his quill and rose from his wooden chair. "Fetch my coat, lad," he ordered, coughing the remnants of his latest fever.  
  


***

  
  
  
London Tower, December 9, 2.13  
  
A heliocentric solar system and the existence of other worlds seemed obvious to most people in 2.13, yet four hundred years prior to John O'Reilly's reading of the Somnium in the Tower of London, the Catholic Church had just been confronted with the matter of the imperfect, cratered and mountainous heavens thanks to Galileo Galilei and Thomas Harriot's telescopes. The notion of a plurality of worlds had officially been heretical doctrine following the trial and execution of Giordano Bruno in 1600 (16.0) under the Old System (before the Y2K Computing Disaster of 20.0). The heliocentric science of Copernicus was no more popular in the Lutheran German States; by 1615, Kepler had been excluded from taking communion not only for his unorthodox religious views, namely that the struggle in Europe between Catholic, Protestant and Jew was a useless one, but also for his unwavering support of Copernicus's vision of the known universe. Like so many single and widowed German women, his mother, Katherine, a cantankerous and spiteful seller of herbs and potions, was on trial for witchcraft. Though the official accusation was that she sold a bad potion to the glazier's wife, a woman of questionable and licentious character, whispers of punishing Kepler for his new science plagued the family until her acquittal in 1621. The old herbalist died the following year.  
  
But inasmuch as Kepler played a pivotal role in the Scientific Revolution, his main motivation was the search for the Harmony of the Spheres. An ardent philhellene, notably of Plutarch and Lucian of Samosata, whose works the young astronomer translated from Greek to Latin at university, Kepler embraced the picture of the universe as a series of concentric Platonic and Pythagorean solids whose behaviour was essentially harmonic, or musical. Yet even this Neoplatonist picture of heliocentrism could not predict the elliptical nature of the planets' orbits, nor the billions-year-old blemishes on their surfaces from asteroids and other cosmic debris. The new picture was less one of certainty and more hyperbole, obscurity and doubt.  
  
Let there be light became an eclipse of darkness.  
  
Shortly after Galileo's "discovery," which had been one of priority, the German astronomer, tiring of the endless quarrels and denials of what had been observable and therefore obvious, began writing the Somnium in earnest around 1612 or 1613, first as a laugh for a fellow Copernican, then as a satirical, yet bitter indictment of his family's persecutors. It was finished by Kepler's death in 1630 and published by his son, Ludwig, four years later.  
  
John O'Reilly had nearly concluded Johannes Kepler's short text detailing an imaginary trip to the Moon, or the 'planet' the daimon, the catalyst, called Levania. Though he had never been strong in mathematics, as he barely passed Algebra II for his GED, John did remember from his ninth grade Earth Sciences class that the astronomer's three laws of planetary motion led to a clear, heliocentric picture of the solar system that influenced Newton's vision of a universe dominated by gravitational forces.  
  
What comes up must come down on Earth at 9.8 metres per second squared.  
  
Though Kepler's Laws were not stated as such in the Somnium, nor were they called laws at this point in history — the reader would have to consult the New Astronomy and the Harmony of the Spheres for his more sophisticated work on planetary orbits — it was a popular commentary on both the obvious and the less obvious: lunar craters, mountains and valleys visible even to the naked eye on a clear night or harvest moon; the principle that modern-day physicists call classical, or 'Galilean' relativity, which cast doubt on terrestrial and planetary immobility that, according to the Greeks and Christendom, proved that the 'solar' system was really a 'terrestrial' one.  
  
It all depends on a scientist's frame of observation.  
  
According to Kepler, there is a permanently visible half of the moon that Earthlings always see whilst the other remains in total darkness (except a small sliver seen at libration) due to the more massive Earth's gravity, which over time, slowed the time for the Moon to spin on its axis to match the time it takes for the celestial body to orbit the Earth. Though Kepler's underplayed, but brilliant joke was to show that the appearance of a stationary Moon actually proved its motion, he nonetheless described two lunar civilisations of Levania's hemispheres, the ever-visible Subvolva and the mysteriously dark Privolva. Their days and nights, alternating between blistering and bone-chilling, each lasted half the lunar cycle of twenty-nine days.  
  
Though Kepler's descriptions of the lunar surface and trajectory were surprisingly correct for the period, the joint Mercury and Cassiopeia missions to the lunar surface in the 1970s by the New European Space Agency, in addition to those of Japanese Space Command and the Russian Space Alliance during the 1980s and 1990s yielded no evidence of extra-terrestrials on the Moon, despite the occasional Cybernet conspiracy theorist insisting otherwise.  
  
John flipped the small brown book closed and swallowed nervously. Despite the US Government's attempts to make them look insane, he knew first-hand that the story of aliens on the Moon was indeed partly true. As an Army Ranger, his entire existence revolved around the classified mission. In spite of its name, a classified mission was in fact routine: go to x country clandestinely and rescue y number of CIA or Lockheed-Martin fuck-ups within z hours. In his eighteen years as an enlisted man, John's missions — mostly successful — were all normal, except one on a chilly Lexington evening in 20.6. On the surface, the top-secret Operation Tea Party was another manoeuvre to defend civilians against the Cybermen; instead, it became a week's walk into Hell. No mission, not even those in Iraq, would ever compare to its brutality, horror and sheer sadism. Yet the death and destruction from battle scratched the surface of what he witnessed, an incident so terrible that it haunted his dreams almost every night afterward. He repeated the story once to an Army chaplain in a confessional a couple months following the Boston Incident, as his superiors called it — a heavy silence fell upon its elderly priest.  
  
The chaplain called it a crime without a name.  
  
Following that terrible week in 20.6, John O'Reilly, once a model soldier and Army Ranger in line for his own command, began questioning orders and openly challenging his CO, thus landing himself a week in the brig for insubordination. Other than burying his angst in hard-core pornographic videos, packs of cigarettes and Jack Daniels, he took his inner rage and self-hatred out on any enemy or Cyberman that crossed his path, thereby forcing the Rangers to discharge him.  
  
Fuck, he growled internally. Why the hell did he have to think of Boston tonight? Still dressed in his military-issue prison sweats, he stretched out on his twin-sized bed and closed his eyes in a vain attempt to block out the disturbing memories.  
  
 _John,_ called out a feminine voice.  
  
His blue orbs blinked open and he jumped off the bed to the standing position. "What the fuck…?" Cowboy muttered aloud, surveying every corner and crevasse of his empty room. Shaking his head, John moved toward his bed when he felt a tap on his shoulder. The American whirled around to see a tall redheaded woman dressed in a British Army colonel's uniform.  
  
"I'm Colonel Jane Smith, John O'Reilly," said the woman authoritatively. "I'm here for your debriefing."  
  
John blinked, taking a small, cautious step back from her. He supposed that he should not have been surprised at this colonel contradicting the other Smith. Having been captured before in Iraq, he knew that the enemy lied to captives as a matter of course.  
  
"I'm here as a friend, Agent O'Reilly," the Colonel replied to the man's unspoken accusations.  
  
"Seems like I have quite a few friends," snarked the American.  
  
The redhead quirked an eyebrow. "Indeed. Ones that follow you across the pond, as it were. But you don't seem like a killer or terrorist. You're just a guilty man."  
  
John scoffed, rubbing his eyes. "Guilty of what, Colonel?"  
  
She deliberately closed the space between them like a trainer approaching an agitated animal. "You tell me, John. You're a man with secrets, caught between past and future and drowning in regret."  
  
Chuckling mirthlessly, John sat on his bed and faced forward. He should have known that they would bring in a shrink to interrogate him.  
  
"I'm not a psychiatrist, John," she barked. "I'm actually here to help."  
  
The Ranger gazed attentively to the mysterious woman. Could Mr Smith have filled the air in his room with hallucinogens? Given what he knew of British intelligence tactics, he thought it unlikely, but that was the only explanation for the woman who could not only read his mind, but suddenly appear without having opened the door.  
  
"Agent O'Reilly!" she snapped. "I am neither phantom nor hallucination, so pull your head out of your bloody arse and listen! We have precious little time and you are not the only man in the bloody universe!"  
  
Redheads, he grumbled. "Alright, fair enough. But what the hell do you want with me?"  
  
Colonel Smith smirked knowingly and raised her hands slightly. The white-walled room seemed to whirl around them like an unobservable computer changing its three-dimensional hologram-desktop of a prison cell to a cold mountain morning in a distant land. John immediately recognised his surroundings: the blue-purple Snowy and Laramie Mountain Ranges in the background, old Western-style mahogany, brown, red, white and orange brick buildings no higher than a storey, the mid-autumn mixture of white snow and black mud covering the streets of a quiet, downtown Laramie, Wyoming. John could smell the greasy, welcoming smoke of fried eggs, bacon and steak from Old Red's that floated in an overcast sky above them. He felt his stomach growl painfully, demanding a hearty meal to compensate for roughly three days' hunger. Colonel Smith gestured with her head toward Old Red's just down the corner. Still uncomprehending how and why they were in Laramie in daylight instead of London at night, he weakly followed his interrogator down 17th Street to the local diner.  
  
Five minutes later, Colonel Smith pushed open the door to reveal a 1950s-era diner. Though the waitresses were dressed in brightly-coloured sweaters, jeans and sneakers correct to the time period, the upholstery, booths, stools and counters were the pale blue and chrome of the fifties. She held the door open for the Army Ranger, whose mouth fell agape at the old diner. "How are we here? Old Red's closed its doors in 20.8?!" After he had been discharged from the Army, a disheartened John O'Reilly despaired even more at discovering that his favourite boyhood hang-out had closed its doors months earlier. The proprietor, 'Old Red' Rodney McCluster, suffered a heart attack at age sixty-eight right after Christmas of 20.7 and no one in the family wanted to take over a barely-in-the-black diner in Laramie. John, marvelling at the old diner of his memories, looked closer at the diners, staff and equipment. Instead of a computer system, they were still using an old-fashioned cash register. Instead of six-dollar prices, John noticed that the listed price for steak and eggs on the back wall was $3.50 including tax.  
  
They even had blue cream soda at lunchtime.  
  
Colonel Smith gestured to an empty booth in the opposite corner of the small restaurant. Deciding to enjoy the hallucination down memory lane, John followed pleasantly, slipping into the seat opposite of the Redhead. A moment later, a brunette waitress no older than sixteen, whose face was caked in pink and purple makeup, approached the booth. "Hiya. What can I get you and the wife this mornin'?" she asked with a high-pitched, perky Western accent.  
  
Before Colonel Smith could brusquely correct the girl's mistake, John interrupted, "Um, two steak and eggs and two cups of coffee, please." She smiled and rushed back to the kitchen with their order. When she was gone, John turned to his companion. "Alright, when the hell are we? 'Cos we certainly aren't in 2.13. Otherwise, I know that we'd be the talk of Old Red's — you in a British military standard, me in sweatpants."  
  
She raised her eyebrow and her blue eyes brightened merrily. "Oh, I love a bloke who's observant. Thursday, October 13, 1988. You'll need your breakfast since you've not eaten in three days, but you must hurry if we're going to make our next appointment by 8.30."  
  
Within the scope of fifteen minutes, John's mouth fell open a second time, only this time irately. He swallowed hard, looking down at the table top. Thankfully, the waitress returned with two steaming cups of black coffee and their steak and eggs.  
  
"Cream and sugar?" she asked. He shook his head negatively whilst the Colonel declined politely. Shrugging, she informed her diners that she would return in a few minutes with the check.  
  
"Why the hell did you bring me here?" hissed John under his breath.  
  
Calmly, she sipped her coffee. "Oh, this is good. Damn fine coffee, this is. Anyway, why not? This is perhaps the most pivotal date in your young life. It also explains a lot about you."  
  
John stared at her coldly. "Some things are better left in the past, Colonel."  
  
"Oi!" she growled. "Listen, Muscles, I am the interrogator, so I make the rules. Now eat and that's an order!" She muttered under breath about a skinny idiot.  
  
"Yes, ma'am," spat the Ranger, taking his fork and vicious jabbing his over-easy fried eggs. Although he was furious at being shown a memory that he would rather forget, John would nevertheless take pleasure in one last meal at Old Red's. Unlike those high fallootin' critics in New York, a Wyoming man took his steak rare and medium-rare if he was about to die and there was no other option. Like a military man at chow, John gratefully muscled through his red, juicy steak and bright yellow egg yolks. Once finished, he wiped his mouth and fingers with a white paper napkin and stared resolutely at his host.  
  
"Thank you for breakfast. I don't have any money to pay or tip, though," said John.  
  
The Redhead rolled her eyes, taking a final sip of her coffee. "Sounds like someone I know. But it doesn't matter — it's a recalled memory, not reality."  
  


***

  
  
John did not know precisely how much time had actually passed when they arrived at the street across from the mud and snow-covered grounds of St. Malachy Catholic School. The school bell had not yet rung, so he estimated that it was sometime between 8.15 and 8.30 in the morning. Just as John was preparing a smart-arse comment to the Colonel, a small group of high-schoolers interrupted him. He was shocked to see a young blonde girl in well-cut blue and gold school uniform and a Broncos jacket walking alongside a slender, muscled boy with frazzled sandy-brown hair wearing blue pants, a white Oxford and grey fleece jacket. Behind them followed two boys, a ginger and a brunet wearing similar uniforms.  
  
"That's me," breathed a shocked John. "That's me with Tammy, my ex-wife. We had just begun dating; I was in ninth grade and she was in eighth. Man, she…" He gulped. "Prettiest girl in school. Every guy in Laramie asked her out, but she picked me. She's still beautiful, even after twenty-five years. Behind me…That's Patrick and Paul. I've known 'em since we were in second grade. Well, Patrick was about a year younger than I."  
  
Colonel Smith chuckled. "Well, Patrick's name gives it away. Bein' ginger and all."  
  
John shook his head with a small smile. "No, that's where you're wrong, ma'am. You would think that Patrick is the redhead given his name, but the ginger's actually the short guy, Paul. Patrick's got the brown hair. Paul was teased in school for it — guys called him Leprechaun."  
  
"And Patrick?" she asked, watching the mundane scene unfold. "What of him?"  
  
"Best friends for ages," replied John tersely. He impatiently turned his head toward the Colonel. "Look, Colonel Smith, what do you want here? I have a sneaking suspicion that we both know what is about to happen. So why show it to me? What the hell does this have to do with espionage?"  
  
Instead of answering him directly, Colonel Smith cast her blue eyes toward the commotion a few metres away from the main entrance of St. Malachy's Catholic School. A group of five youths approximately fourteen to fifteen years in age marched on John's circle of four. A tall blond boy dressed in the same blue, gold and white school uniform called out, "Hey Tammy, what's it like kissing the Laramie Redskin?" His friends laughed as the younger John shot the harasser a steely glare, put his arm protectively around Tammy's shoulders and guided her hurriedly toward the school doors.  
  
Paul whirled around to face the blond. "Larimer, we all know you're a stupid asshole, so why do you feel the need to prove it?"  
  
Larimer and his friends stopped in their path toward the school, visibly shocked at the normally taciturn Paul. "Leprechaun, stay out of this. This is between me and Redskin here."  
  
The younger John opened the door for his girlfriend and, as he was about to enter, said calmly, "Tim, I maybe a Redskin, but you were born without a foreskin. So I'd suggest fixing your problem as you go fuck yourself."  
  
A stunned silence fell upon the small crowd that had gathered during the exchange. Pairs of eyes shifted from the part-Ojibwe to the enraged Tim Larimer whose sweat and fear glistened on his cold brow, visibly nervous that he was losing face in front of his now-chuckling friends. Embarrassment quickly transformed into rage as he stalked toward his peer who was moving inside the brown brick building. With a large reddened hand, he grabbed John's shoulder. "Where do you think you're going, Chief? We still haven't gotten to the part about your mommy and daddy! How the good ol' Rancher's bedded every woman in town, even while your Injun mom was sharing his bed."  
  
John angrily knocked away Tim's hand with his arm. "You shut your fuckin' mouth, asshole!"  
  
Tim smirked sadistically, his off-white, crooked teeth pultruding from his cracked beige lips and his brown eyes sparkled with glee. "Oh, I've struck a nerve. I just wanted Tammy to know what she was getting. Like father, like Injun bastard son. I just hope you're that good in the sack. That's only reason why Mommy stayed around 'till she drank herself to death like most Injuns do. Ain't that right, Little Weasel?"  
  
Tim Larimer's eyes changed quickly from excited chocolate to dull agate as John's fist hit him squarely just above the jaw. The elder John and the Colonel watched passively as the incensed younger man pummelled his fists into Larimer's body, blood pouring from his mouth and nose. Tammy ran out of the building, screaming and begging her boyfriend to stop, whilst Paul and other boys tried unsuccessfully to pull John from his well-mangled target. Patrick did not move; he observed them dispassionately as his schoolmates either shouted their support or tried to end the fight. A moment later, several teachers and black-coated priests rushed out of the doors, yelling at the boys to break it up; it took four men to drag young John O'Reilly from a barely conscious Tim Larimer, whose blood had begun to drip into the white snow.  
  
The headmaster, Father Matthias, shouted, "What happened? Call an ambulance!" Another priest ran back inside the school to telephone the paramedics.  
  
Before John could speak, Tim's friend, Casey, cried, "John started it, Father. He just attacked Larimer for no reason."  
  
Outraged, John yelled, "That's a lie!" He lunged at Casey, even whilst the four men yanked him away.  
  
"Sir, Larimer was talkin' trash at O'Reilly and Tammy. They walked away, but Larimer kept at it," Paul added in his friend's defence.  
  
"Mr Ruettiger, I don't care what he was calling Mr O'Reilly. Who threw the first punch?" hissed Father Matthias. He looked around the crowd of the suddenly quiet high-schoolers. "Well?" glowered the angry Jesuit. "I asked you a question!"  
  
"It was O'Reilly, Sir," murmured a small voice. All pro-John heads crossly glared at an unemotional Patrick McGee.  
  
"Right. Show's over. Get to your classes. Bring Mr O'Reilly inside," ordered the Father. The four priest-teachers hauled a stunned John O'Reilly inside the school as the headmaster remained with the beaten Tim Larimer until the ambulance arrived to take him to the hospital.  
  
The elder John O'Reilly, arms crossed, scoffed disgustedly at the scene. "I got expelled while Tim Larimer was suspended for two weeks. His father was the mayor at the time, so they made an exception for him. Tammy broke up with me for almost a year and my father made me work for my room and board until I got my GED and enlisted in the Army. Meanwhile, that fucking bastard ended up in the drunk tank more times than I can count and even landed himself in prison for dope."  
  
The Colonel gazed at him sympathetically. "Life's not fair."  
  
John chuckled mirthlessly. "Nope, it sure ain't. Not for an Indian kid in Wyoming. Except for Paul and Tammy, I lost all of my friends. I didn't have anyone except for a couple guys at the steakhouse and the recruiter in town, Sergeant Neske. Tammy, well, you know the story. Paul went to Colorado State University and became a state senator."  
  
"And what about Patrick?"  
  
The Ranger gave her an impossibly dark look for his normally blue eyes, warning her to stay away from that particular subject. Yet the Colonel pressed on, "People's lives often come full circle, especially when there's unfinished business. Time dislikes unwoven threads. Patrick McGee is one of those threads, Agent O'Reilly. He is the reason why we're here. You asked me why I wanted to show you this. The truth is, Agent, I didn't bring you here. You did."  
  
As John's mouth opened to respond, like lights extinguished to smoke, his surroundings twirled from light to darkness and silence except for the Colonel's voice that whispered _Tell the truth, John. It is our way._ A second later, his blue eyes revealed the dim light of artificial incandescence above his prison bed. John darted upright, realising that he was no longer in Laramie but in London Tower. Calming his heavy breathing, he heard loud voices approaching his room, two of which he swore belonged to Director Tyler and the Clowndick. As he managed to regain his senses, the white door crashed open to a livid pair of Torchwood agents, with a black man in a raincoat and Mr Smith behind them. As he was fixated on Director Tyler's burning blue-green orbs, John failed to stop the choking hand of James Noble slamming into his throat like an oncoming storm. Like a crack of thunder, the Doctor's voice boomed, "WHERE IS ROSE?!"  
  


***

  
  
September 3, 1601, Prague, Holy Roman Empire  
  
The tired, annoyed Johannes Kepler dutifully followed the servant boy to Tycho Brahe's hotel. Knocking at the stately oak door, Kepler and the boy heard a muffled, but authoritative "Enter!" Pushing open the heavy door, Kepler spied his employer standing in front of the fireplace of the richly-decorated parlour, a half-empty glass in hand. He was a portly blond man with a long moustache and beard, dressed in fine black velvet typical of Danish nobility, his prosthetic gold nose gleamed in the firelight.  
  
"Milord," bowed the boy, "I have fetched Master Kepler."  
  
"Very good, Jørgen, you may go," said Brahe.  
  
Affecting the most pleasant disposition that he could muster at that time of night, Kepler asked, "What is it you require, Lord Brahe?"  
  
"Kepler, there's been a development at Benátky nad Jizerou, one that could change the very course of human history." He took a deep gulp of the remnants of Akvavit. "You must keep this secret; else we are all damned. You bloody Copernicans might have won after all."  
  
The German's expression became immediately sombre; as demanding and unreasonable as Brahe was on occasion, he was neither a liar nor prone to exaggeration. "Of course, Sir. I will utter this to no one," replied Kepler.  
  
Brahe grimaced at the empty glass. "Very well. Then tell me, what are your beliefs on living beings off our world?"  
  
Johannes frowned in confusion. "Off world, Sir?"  
  
"Those that are not from our world."


	38. Chapter 38: Redux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is an idea that I’ve had for a while, in that it is a sort of revenge fic for Rose. Whilst I wouldn’t classify this as Doctor-bashing, it isn’t particularly Ten-friendly. This explores what I consider to be the second obstacle in a Tentoo/Rose pairing, i.e., how much of Ten remains in him. It’s no secret that I’m not a Ten/Rose shipper (for the stated reasons in this chapter); it always bothered me that Ten made Rose his double’s caretaker -- a supposedly angry man with little empathy for others – at the expense of herself. Pretty shitty thing to do if you ask me.

**Redux**

 

“Why are we here again?” asked Rose wearily as she and her alien companion stood on a cold, rocky brown cliff several metres above Bad Wolf Bay. She blinked her amber eyes slowly and sleepily, suddenly feeling a total lack of fear and fight.  
  
Karl Björnstjerna shrugged, gazing furtively out into the endless blue of the North Sea. “I’m here to give you a very special Christmas present, Rose.”  
  
Rose stared at him suspiciously, crossing her black leather jacket-covered arms. “You said that you needed something from me. What was it? If there’s nothing, I’d like to return home.”  
  
His shadowy eyes twinkled mischievously at the petite blonde. “I am getting something for this, my dear. A treaty between two entities, if you will. I’m going to give you what you want and in return, I’ll receive what I need.”  
  
“Which is?” she demanded.  
  
Purposefully ignoring her question, he continued, “Humans always love to reminisce and regret. They use the faculty of their imagination to see beyond their world and create others. It’s why the universe has always viewed them as a distinct threat — the Sycorax, the Hive, the Little People of Galen VIII,” Björnstjerna turned to grin smugly at Rose, “the Time Lords.”  
  
Rose frowned in surprise, her eyes narrowing at the Swedish alien. Despite her first reaction to demand her release, now was not the time to take an impulsive risk. Though she was quickly running out of patience with his obfuscation, her finely-tuned Torchwood training sensed that it was Scheherazade or risk being eternally lost in time and space. “But the Time Lords are all gone. The Doctor told me himself — he killed them all.”  
  
“Supposedly,” agreed Björnstjerna, nodding. “But you forget one of the fundamental laws of physics: matter is neither created nor destroyed. That was, interestingly, one of the points of Kepler’s book. Of course, the actual law came with Lavoisier and others, he was among the first to recognise that matter on Earth was likely the same as that of the Moon. We all share the same energy, my dear. But that’s only if you’re from within the universe.”  
  
“And if you’re from outside of it?” breathed Rose, who suddenly felt a deep chill seep into her bones.  
  
Björnstjerna looked up the blonde impatiently. “Rose, you’re a physicist, remember? What happens if the conservation of energy is somehow violated?”  
  
“It can’t,” immediately replied Rose. “According to Noether’s Theorem, since mass and energy are time invariant, they’re universally conserved quantities.” She paused, then glared at the Swede sceptically. “Wait a tic. Are you saying that there was some violation?! But that can’t be, especially since firstly, we’re existing, and secondly, the laws of physics — momentum, mass-energy, parity, electric charge, spin, probability — are still respected in that Earth isn’t flying off into space and we can measure particle delay! You’re off your trolley!”  
  
Björnstjerna raised his eyebrow. “Am I? Where were you five months ago? My, my, how you humans forget. Product of twenty-four-hour news, I’m afraid. Any news story has a life of roughly seventy-two hours, if it’s high profile. Fifteen minutes, if mundane.”  
  
Rose froze. “You’re talkin’ about the Darkness and the Reality Bomb.”  
  
The Swede laughed, clapping his brownish-beige hands together in delight. “Brava, my dear. I understand you were quite busy trying to get back to your beloved Doctor and to stop the Daleks from destroying the multiverse, but did you ever wonder how they could destroy all of creation? The sheer number of what’s known as Z-neutrinos — Z and W-bosons for humans — and Higgs bosons in our world would make it next to impossible to complete eradicate them all. Additionally, twenty-seven planets would hardly generate enough energy to destroy all of universal mass-energy, to say nothing of the multiverse.”  
  
The blonde pursed her lips together in deep reflection. At the time, she simply took the Doctor’s word — their word for it — that twenty-seven planets could destroy the multiverse. Neither she, nor the Torchwood physicists could fully explain how the Darkness came from so little. After a moment, her amber orbs widened in realisation. “Time didn’t break down!” she suddenly cried. Clutching her temples like her second Doctor, she continued, “So not only was Davros’s bomb faulty, but there was no conservation violation. So the energy transferred from Prime was, I dunno, copied to this one.”  
  
“Or vice versa,” added the Swede. “That is how the Metacrisis was born. At the time of his creation, Prime and your current universe were joined, albeit by a thread. To balance out that loss of energy, the Doctor’s aborted regeneration resulted in a Schrödinger’s Cat of sorts — the hand that was previously dead became alive. Two opposing events that were able, from that moment, to co-exist in different universes. That’s, incidentally, what you experienced whilst travelling through worlds. Different what-ifs.”  
  
“This what-if, it was ‘cause of the Doctor? Or the Doctor-Donna?” she whispered.   
  
Shaking his head, Björnstjerna approached her gently, putting his right hand on her shoulder. “No, Rose, because of you.”  
  
“Me?!” she said, stunned, as she stepped back from him.   
  
“The only way that Darkness can be tampered is the Light. The artron energy of time. I am here to help you realise your destiny, Rose Tyler.”   
  
“What the hell are you talking about?” hissed Rose.  
  
“The Doctor-Donna may be the most important event in creation. For a moment, she tied all of those possible events to a single meta-event. But you are the Moment of Creation itself. She was the knot; you are the thread.”  
  
Rose shook her head violently. “No, you’re lying. You said so yourself — I’m a forgetful human who’s all of twenty-seven. How could I be Creation, an event that happened billions of years ago?”  
  
“How can Christians believe in the Trinity?” countered the alien cryptically. “Besides, I can prove it to you. You’re a scientist, Rose Tyler; observable proof is your bread and butter.”  
  
The Swede’s challenge peaked both her adrenalin and intellectual interest. But a sliver of fear meandered between them; her mind flashed to a Greek epic that was required reading in her mythology course at uni. Though Rose found that she enjoyed Greek epics and had intended in her final year to take a course in Ancient Greek to read the original texts, she silently rejoiced at never having done so, for Hesiod’s verses seemed too prophetic:  
  
 _Straightway, in return for fire [Zeus] fashioned an evil for men.  
For the renowned Lame One molded from Gaia a likeness  
of majestic maiden through the plans of Kronides.  
Goddess gray-eyed Athena girded and dressed her  
in a silvery white garment. Down from her head, she drew  
with her hands a veil skillfully wrought, a wonder to behold.  
[About her head Pallas Athena put fresh-budding garlands,  
flowers of the meadow, desirable things, around her head.]  
About her, she put a golden band on her head  
that the renowned Lame One himself had made,  
working it with his hands, while pleasing his father._  
  
Was Björnstjerna’s proof opening The Box? What would come of his challenge? For every piece of new information, something old must change its form. Rose knew that it was very likely a trap; he said that the offer was part of an exchange, that she received a present, perhaps a tribute, for his need. A need implied survival; if he believed that she was Creation, then he needed her for artron energy, her exposure to Time and the Void. Like in any creation myth, man and God were symbiotic.   
  
“Sorry, I’ll pass, ta,” declared Rose, “I’d rather not be your battery.”  
  
The Swede managed to grin malevolently and jubilantly. “Ah, my dear Rose, your lessons are progressing beyond my expectations! But your analogy of the battery implies an external source. We’re both made of the same energy. I,” he approached her calmly, raising her hand to place a gentle kiss to its front, “can’t exist without you. You can’t exist without me. Two sides of the moon, as it were.”  
  
Immediately yanking her hand from him, Rose recoiled in disgust and horror. “Take me back now!” she ordered.  
  
Björnstjerna smiled lightly. “As you wish. I have no intention of keeping you a prisoner.” Before Rose could retort, they both disappeared from the cliff; though her adversary was nowhere to be seen, she found herself standing next to the familiar console of the TARDIS, where her mother and the blue-suited Doctor stood behind her.   
  
An equally familiar voice echoed, “It’s time for one last trip. Dårlig Ulv Stranden, better known as…” The Doctor-Donna opened her mouth, but soon closed it voicelessly.  
  
As if a single moment had passed, Rose Tyler found herself adrift on Bad Wolf Bay. In the distance, she could hear her second Doctor insist, “… But you made me better. Now you can do the same for him.”  
  
Could she? Having the benefit of five months’ worth of future memories, she winced at how her third Doctor had informed her that he had moved on, abandoned her several times during the course of their investigation in Paris and attempted to force his mind on her when she refused to comply with his desires. Was he really different from the second Doctor? He too had abandoned her, first to die with Mickey thousands of years from Peckham, all for a French courtesan, then a second time in the parallel world. He occasionally, though bitingly denigrated her domestic approach and human mind. Rose ignored Time’s warning in the vain and tragic search for a happy ending with her alien prince; the twenty-year-old firmly believed that she was different because she kept her promise, that he would change out of the love they shared. The twenty-seven-year-old discovered the harsh reality. This was not a fairy-tale; happy endings were decisions, not empty wishes.  
  
“No,” she said aloud. As she noticed the shocked faces of the Doctor, the blue-suited Doctor and the Doctor-Donna, Rose continued, grasping at a tenuous control of her turbulent emotions, “I can’t. I can’t fix you — any of you. Goodbye, Doctor. Come on, Mum, let’s call Dad.” As she turned away toward the distant road leading to Bergen, she heard both Jackie and the Doctor-Donna call her name, begging her to return. A few moments later, when she heard the familiar _womp-womp_ of the TARDIS vanishing, she allowed a single tear and a shuddering breath to escape. A pair of footsteps rapidly ran behind her like a wild animal following its prey.   
  
“Rose, stop!” cried a male voice. Rose stopped, inhaling as she spun around to view the blue-suited man. His dark brown eyes, normally sparkling with humour and adventure, dulled with pain and confusion. “I want to spend my life with you,” he whispered. “Please!”   
  
“No, you don’t, Doctor,” she replied tearfully. “You’re here because he kicked you off the TARDIS and everyone knows you’re rubbish on your own. I’m sorry for that — he and the Doctor-Donna did create you and you’re right, they are responsible. You saved us when he refused to make the hard choice, the one that any of us would have made.” She sniffled, looking out into the blue-grey waters of the bay. The Doctor raised a hand to her cheek, yet she lifted hers to bat it away. “But I can’t keep doing this, keep waiting for you to come back. It’s awfully nice to have someone else waiting on your feelings and choices!” she chuckled mirthlessly, wiping the tears from her eyes. After a brief pause, she shook her head to herself. “The problem is that if I don’t make you better ‘nough, it’s my fault for killin’ the Doctor. If I do make you better, then you’ll be onto the next companion ‘cause that’s what the Doctor does. And that’s your choice. You don’t look back; you said so yourself. And in making you better, I’ll lose myself, only you won’t be there.”  
  
The Doctor bit the inside of his cheek angrily. “That’s not true!” he hissed.   
  
“It is,” insisted Rose brokenly. “I’ve been ‘ere before with a bloke, when I was sixteen. I thought I could fix ‘im, too. At the beginning, he said I was the best thing that happened to ‘im. I quit school and devoted my life to his every need, even whilst he beat me and called me horrible names. I thought that if I showed ‘im that I loved him no matter what, it would get better. ‘Bout two years later, I found him in bed with some slag called Noosh and myself in eight hundred quid of debt. It took me two years, ‘till I met you, to realise I deserved better. You convinced me of that. I deserve better now, too, Doctor. I’ll be there for you ‘til you grow the TARDIS and leave. But I won’t be your companion again. I have one last promise to keep to you: living that fantastic life.”  
  
Grief-stricken, the future James Noble watched numbly as Jackie marched up to them, phone in hand, complaining about the hours-long wait for Pete’s private zeppelin. Rose touched his arm warmly, smiling ever so slightly, before proceeding to walk with Jackie, side by side.  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
The entire Torchwood crew, including a tired-looking Pete Tyler and his young son, stood on the tarmac to cheer the return of Rose, Jackie Tyler and the new new new Doctor. The latter woman disembarked first, almost tripping over her designer shoes in a rush to Tony and her husband. Next came Rose, who sought out Jake Simmonds; with a single, exchanged look, the Manc’s face fell in realisation that Mickey had chosen to stay in Universe Prime. She descended the zeppelin, hugged her parallel father and kid brother and then grabbed Jake’s hand tenderly. “I’m so sorry, Jake,” she whispered in his ear.   
  
Jake nodded tearfully, wrapping his arms around her. “It’s alright, love. I knew he wasn’t comin’ back after his gran passed. But I’m glad that you’re here.” He glanced up at the base of zeppelin to an ashen Doctor. “He’s here?! Where’s the TARDIS? I thought….?”  
  
“Long story. He’s here to stay in this universe,” replied Rose. They watched Jackie, chattering excitedly, push a reluctant Doctor toward Pete and Tony. The half-Gallifreyan plastered a smile on his face at the young strawberry-blond, who screeched several questions without a breath in between at the half-alien. Rose began to chuckle when something caught her eye. She turned her head slightly to the right to reveal an unshaven, fatigued Agent John O’Reilly who was dressed in a rumpled, dirty suit and askew tie. He stood apart from the rest of the crowd, blue eyes shifting jealously between her and the half-human Doctor. She felt herself striding purposefully through the flock of congratulations and hugs toward the unmoving American until they were within a metre of each other. His eyes fixated on her, waiting. After a full moment of silence, she breathed a “Hello.”   
  
“Hey,” he said softly. “You, uh, came back.”  
  
“Yeah,” she answered emotionally. “You, uh, you waited? You didn’t go back to New York?”   
  
“A Ranger never leaves his men behind, ever.” Clearing his throat, he nodded toward the blue-suited man with Tony. “I see the Doctor came with. I assume you and he…”  
  
“You assume wrong, John,” she interrupted.   
  
John’s flat eyes sparkled for the first time in weeks. “You and he aren’t…?”   
  
Rose shook her head, rushing to close the distance. She grabbed the labels of his jacket and captured his lips with hers. Quickly overcoming disbelief and surprise, he pulled her to him, deepening the kiss, murmuring her name and I missed you alternatively. The couple stayed embraced in each other for several moments until an impatient Oi interrupted them. John and Rose broke apart to reveal her stunned parents, a confused Tony, several cheering Torchwood agents and a pale-looking Doctor observing them. As John stiffened to regain his Ranger composure, he felt a feminine voice whisper, “Let’s go home.”  
  


***

  
  
  
John O’Reilly’s body slammed into the wall with a noisy thud opposite of his prison cot. The indignant shouts of Shaun Temple were like white noise compared to the blackened eyes of his half-alien assailant. A slender forearm pressed bruisingly against his windpipe.   
  
“I warned you, Sheep-shagger! Now, you’d better tell me this bloody instant where Rose is!” growled an enraged Doctor James Noble.   
  
Realising that he would soon lose consciousness, John opened his mouth to indicate that he would talk. Convincing the Doctor to loosen his grip just enough, the Ranger slid his arm between them and, using the Doctor’s forearm as an arm bar, flipped him onto his back. As the Ranger tried to slide away, the Doctor’s left leg kicked out with lightning-fast speed, knocking the muscular human to the floor. Knowing that the Ranger had almost twenty kilogrammes on his lanky frame and not trusting the strength of his new human body to resist a full attack by a trained soldier, the Doctor quickly rose to his feet in what Venusian Aikido referred to as the Basic Structure, seventy percent of his weight on his front foot, thirty in the back to prevent tripping or a ground assault.   
  
John stood to face the maddened alien. Coughing slightly from the choke, he yelled, “What the fuck is wrong with you, Noble? What the fuck are you saying? Rose is missing?”  
  
A coldly calm Pete Tyler interjected, “Rose went missing from her bed this evening. Just disappeared. Since you are working for the man who tried to kill our team in Paris, you can understand why we would make inquiries.” The Ranger stared blankly at his former boss, his mind conjuring up the worst images of a discarded and bloodied Rose Tyler at the bottom of the Thames.   
  
“You don’t need to answer, Agent O’Reilly!” interrupted Shaun. “As your lawyer,” he glared at both Director Tyler and the Doctor, “I intend on filing charges on your behalf in the morning.”  
  
“Bollocks your charges, Mr Temple,” bellowed Pete. “No one in England will miss him. Though maybe his friend might. Actually, it seems Agent O’Reilly has two friends: The Paris Man and Minister Karl Björnstjerna.”   
  
“Karl Björnstjerna? He’s the minister who Rose found, right? Why the hell would he be involved? And as for the Paris Man, he’s not my friend!” retorted John. “Believe me, I wish that I never heard of that prick. But you’re going to have trouble finding him. He’s CIA and former Special Forces. If he is here, I’m the only one who can identify him.”  
  
As Agent O’Reilly concluded his sentence, the group heard a loud, inhuman wail emanate from the Doctor. Scratching at his temples, he winced and cried in immeasurable pain. The prison room grew chilly, like a winter front coming through on a January evening, and the floating atoms in the air hushed to a standstill. Pete felt his reaction time slow to whole seconds; he watched his arm lash out to stop the rapid blob pull his emergency weapon from the back of his waist. Shaun’s and his eyes widened in horror upon seeing the deceptively composed Doctor raise his sidearm with his right hand to John’s forehead, clicking off the safety.   
  
“Guard!” screamed Shaun in real-time. “What the hell are you doing, Doctor?”  
  
Ignoring Shaun’s question, James said in a dark, disjointed whisper, “Time Lords are known for their benevolence. I’m not. I’m going to give you exactly ten seconds to tell us who the ‘prick’ is. Ten…Nine…Eight…”  
  
John took a step forward, pressing his head to the barrel. “Go ahead, Clowndick, do it. If you think it’ll bring back Rose, I’m all for it.”  
  
“Five!” screamed the Doctor. “Tell me where she is!”   
  
“Doctor, that’s enough!” shouted Pete.  
  
The Doctor did not respond; instead, he pressed the violently shaking gun into John’s forehead, enjoying the pure hatred, rage, jealousy and fear that poured through his half-human veins. His breathing was rapid and ragged, and his vision narrowed to the scope of John O’Reilly’s collected profile. Time Lords abhorred violence and death, yet all he could think of was someone hurting his Rose.   
  
Pete shivered defencelessly at the imposing sight of a lanky, murderous half-Gallifreyan in a black leather jacket holding an equally dark Glock 17 to the American’s head. Shaun could only muster the courage to stare at the cold, glass-like reflection of John O’Reilly on the Doctor’s gun. The Doctor trembled, his obsidian eyes glassy and raw, readying his teeth for the red blood of the kill.   
  
_Some say the world will end in fire,_  
  
Some say ice.  
  
From what I’ve tasted of desire,  
  
I hold with those who favour fire.   
  
“I love her, too,” murmured John, closing his eyes.   
  
Instead of the deafening bang of a gun bullet leaving its chamber, they all heard the click of the safety. Breathing a sigh of relief, Shaun, Pete and John lowered their guard. The Doctor tossed the gun away to the side of the room, freeing his right hand to punch the Ranger in the left jaw, knocking him to the ground.   
  
Whilst John clutched his reddened jaw and split lip, James spat unmelodious, foreign syllables at him. He found himself blocked by Shaun and Pete as he moved to hit John a second and third time.  
  
Tell the truth, a feminine voice echoed inside John’s mind. His blurry vision spotted the analogue clock on the wall that read 8.32 in the evening. Shaking his head, he read it again: 9.15.  
  
“Why are you protecting this man, Agent O’Reilly?” asked Pete, who moved in front of the Doctor.   
  
Before John could answer, the Doctor fell to his knees and clutched his temples at the ice pick-like intrusion into the most intimate depths of his mind. Mr Smith’s guards rushed into the room at his blood-curdling cries as Pete dropped alongside of him.  
  
“Call Torchwood Medical, now!” ordered Pete. He turned to the catatonic half-alien. “Doctor? Can you respond? What’s wrong?” There was no coherent reply; he continued to scream and rant in his native language with sporadic English and French. John immediately dropped next to the other side of the Doctor to check his pulse. “Goddamn, sir, his heart rate has skyrocketed. Honestly, if he were fully human, I’d say he was having a panic attack.”   
  
Shaun approached the two men tentatively, slowly gesturing to the Doctor with a single index finger. Gulping, he said quietly, “This happened before. Just this evening, before you came by, Director Tyler. He became catatonic because of that Swedish fellow.”  
  
Pete and John exchanged worried looks. “Shit!” voiced Pete. “We need to get him to Torchwood immediately. If this is some sort of mental violation, we’ll need to scan his brain for any damage.”  
  
As John nodded his agreement, a black flash rushed at him, knocking him backward to the floor. Winded, he found himself too vulnerable to block the fist-sized blows to his head and to shove an insane Doctor James Noble off of him. Growing dizzy from the assault, John heard a clawing male voice growl over the pleas for him to stop.  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
London-Heathrow Airport, 21.15  
  
The new Chargé Karl Björnstjerna, dressed in a charcoal grey Armani suit and raincoat, exited the airport, dashed past the gathering of fifty-odd journalists squabbling and shouting questions and slipped into his diplomatic motorcade, leaving only the echoes of clicks and flashes of video-cameras and tape recorders. After he gave the signal to drive, he faced the man in front of him, eyebrow raised.   
  
“I see you’ve had to change bodies again. It’s not an improvement, especially this man,” remarked the Swede glibly.   
  
“It has its drawbacks, for sure, but you’ll thank me later,” replied the brown-haired Raincoat Man.  
  
Björnstjerna rolled his eyes telepathically at the man. “You had to choose an American knucklehead? They’re thicker than two Norwegians at Christmas dinner.”  
  
“Stop your bitching. I was dying and had to make due. Besides, as stupid as this guy is, he’s useful to us. He has a personal link to John O’Reilly,” retorted the American in their familiar telepathy.   
  
The Swede’s eyes sparkled inquisitively. “Indeed? Does Torchwood know?”  
  
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t get the impression that Agent O’Reilly would want to — how do the Americans say it — air dirty laundry in public. He’s rather protective of his father and his mother’s memory. Or should I say, our father.”  
  
Björnstjerna smiled evilly. “Perfect. The plan is nearly complete: Torchwood’s going to be too busy to stop us from attaining the Great Unity. Our people will rise again from their sleep. Not even the so-called Great Time War could eradicate us.”  
  
It was Raincoat Man’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “You’ve managed to persuade her? What about James Noble?”  
  
Snorting disparagingly, he replied, “James Noble’s a weakling. Despite all of the legends surrounding the Great Destroyer of Worlds, the Doctor is a name forged from fear and self-loathing. The man behind the mask, as it were, is of no concern. As for Rose Tyler, I’ve given her what every woman wants. A Christmas offering of sorts.”  
  
Raincoat Man’s thin lips turned up his cheeks like a celebratory toast. “Then allow me to pay tribute, as well.” He reached into his charcoal grey raincoat pocket with his right hand and a moment later, emerged with a slip of paper between his index and middle fingers. Accepting the paper inquiringly, Björnstjerna laughed aloud upon reading the numbers 3-7-77. Dropping it carelessly on the small side table, the Swede reached for his Vitexphone and searched for a London number. Pressing the green call button, he gleefully put the phone to his ear. A moment later, he spoke, “Yes, hello, is this the London Mirror? May I speak to Cyril James? Yes, it’s about the Paris bombings. I may have some information that would scoop your competitors.”  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
  
  
Sunday, 13 July 2.14, Tyler Mansion, London  
  
Rose Tyler growled irritably as the alarm clock interrupted her peaceful slumber with a loud buzz. Slamming her hand on the snooze button, she opened one eye to read the time of half-nine in the morning. Grumbling about forgetting once again to turn off her alarm on the weekend, Rose dragged the white duvet over her head to return to her dream about some odd Torchwood mission. Suddenly, the door pushed open with a crash to reveal a squealing Jackie Tyler.   
  
“Oi! Get up! The limousine will be here at eleven sharp and it’s already half-nine! Hair and makeup will be here any minute. I know you were on a time machine and all, but you will not be late for your own wedding!” shouted a pink-robed Jackie, whose blonde hair was bunched up in curlers.   
  
“Wha…?” Rose sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. Taking a second look at her bedroom, she noticed the calendar set to July 2.14 and a deep red heart around Sunday the thirteenth. On the end table next to her bed, she saw a framed photograph of her and John O’Reilly at Piccadilly Circus and a copy of an ivory-coloured, handmade invitation card that read:  
  
  
  


_“Together with our parents, John Robert O’Reilly & Rose Marion Tyler invite you to share in the ceremony uniting us in marriage on Sunday, 13th of July 2.14, at 2.00 pm, St. James Roman Catholic Church, Spanish Place, London.”_

  
  
Rose looked down at her left ring finger; an elegant, princess-cut diamond set in a thin, white gold band wrapped around the slender digit like a warm embrace. She remembered fondly the night that he had proposed; after work, he had whisked her away with a surprise weekend and Valentine’s Day holiday in Dublin. After a few pints and bangers and mash at the pub nearest their bed and breakfast, they returned for an intimate bath. Hours later, among mussed bed sheets, the normally cool-headed John O’Reilly stuttered and mumbled his words, though he managed to ramble out a marriage proposal. Upon their return, Jake, whom she asked to serve as her Man of Honour, the Torchwood secretaries, agents and other personnel warmly congratulated them both. The following Sunday, during roast dinner, she and John broke the news of their engagement to her parents and brother. Though Pete shook John’s hand and welcomed him to the Tyler family, Jackie leapt from her chair at the table and slapped the poor man for not asking her properly. After weeks of arguing, screaming and exchanging cold shoulders, Jackie, at Pete and Rose’s behest, accepted the American. “If he makes you happy, then I’m happy, love,” she said.   
  
The event took months to plan, mostly due to Jackie’s insistence on a society wedding and Jack and John O’Reilly’s request for a Catholic ceremony. Not religious herself, Rose refused to convert to Catholicism, much to Jack O’Reilly’s chagrin, but nevertheless agreeing to the ceremony. The bride and her mother fought over every single detail, from the flowers, the eight-tiered cake which Rose thought ridiculous, to the dress. Jackie wanted her daughter to be the next Princess Diana; Rose wanted modern and elegant. Tiring of the constant quarrelling that was so characteristic of their relationship, Rose compromised with her mum, choosing a Vera Wang tulle gown with a sweetheart neckline.  
  
Rose rushed out of bed, suddenly energised at the excitement of getting married to the Man Who Stayed, John O’Reilly. The moniker could not help but remind her of the Doctor, either one, who abandoned her to the slow life. To be candid, some of that excitement came from cold feet; ever since she began travelling with the Doctor, Rose eschewed domestics as best she could, partly in fear of scaring him away and partly in an attempt to explore a life different from the status quo of school, marriage and family. When she was first trapped in Pete’s World, she resented the slow life and struggled to adapt to a path of least adrenalin. However, upon the second return, she realised that she missed having someone to travel with and to share her inner-most thoughts and feelings. With the Doctor, she was always on egg shells, suppressing her natural human desires so not to cause him offence. He wanted to travel, always on his terms, without the emotional attachments that a human craved. In the year following her permanent homecoming, Rose experienced how good it could be.   
  
The human Doctor, who assumed the name James Noble, was more or less the same Doctor as his predecessor: he spent every free hour in his Torchwood laboratory with the budding TARDIS. Whilst they passed each other frequently in the Canary Wharf corridors, mumbling polite hellos and the occasional ‘How’ve you been?’, the Doctor treated her as another human colleague at Torchwood. Rose had been, during the first few months, quietly disappointed, as unsurprising as the turn of events was. Yet by Christmas time, she came to accept that her romantic feelings for the Doctor had long since dissipated. She would always remember their time together fondly, like that with an old flame, and would be forever grateful to him for showing her another, more fantastic way of living. Nonetheless, she recognised his faults more clearly: Her Doctor was selfish and emotionally needy whilst unavailable to the people around him. She hoped that maybe in the future, someone could help him overcome his fears.  
  
“Rose!” yelled her mum for the tenth time.   
  
“I’m gettin’ there!” she replied. Even though she sent him an invitation to the wedding, the Doctor never responded. She supposed that it was too domestic for him. Sighing, she followed her mum to the quick tea and croissant breakfast that awaited her.


	39. Chapter 39: Choices

**Choices**

 

Daph’s blue-grey triple-folded ears twitched at Donna’s swift movements in the kitchen behind him. As she cleaned up the leftover pizza, grumbling at the Spaceman’s lack of cleanliness and civility, the Scottish Fold propped himself up to a human-like seated position against the back of the black sofa, his medium-sized legs sprawled in front of his exposed belly and angled toward the flat-screen telly. He sensed Donna’s anxiety building at the hours-long silence from her Vitexphone. Despite the bald human’s promises of sending protection, they were still alone. He yawned, flexing his jaws and flashing his sharp incisors.   
  
Like he, the Marquis, needed protection from those twits.   
  
A moment later, a foul-tempered Donna barrelled into the sitting room. Daph gazed up mildly at the redheaded woman who skidded to a halt at the Buddha-like cat on the sofa. Her lips twitched slightly in amusement, chuckles threatening to escape as the Marquis’s orange cat eyes morphed from inquisitiveness to irritation. Rolling his eyes, Daph yawned at Donna and pretended to give all his attention to the re-run of Sherlock on the BBC. The gross inaccuracies of the programme usually annoyed the cat, even when there was nothing else to watch.   
  
If the humans only knew that Sherlock Holmes was a cat.   
  
Donna gently sat down next to him and scratched his head with her finger in half-apology. After a moment, the Marquis acknowledged her with soft purring and a contented smile. As she continued to scratch his head, the redhead checked her Vitexphone for the twentieth time in fifteen minutes. Neither Jake, nor Shaun had bothered to ring her in their quest for truth and justice. Though she was relatively certain that no harm had come to them, she resented having to wait on Torchwood back-up like a bloody damsel in distress. She would give them a half-hour more before rescuing her fourteen-year-old European shorthair and checking into the Lanesborough for the night at Pete Tyler’s expense. After all, she reasoned, the billionaire could spare five-hundred quid plus incidentals. Her fantasies of lying in bed watching in-room movies with the two cats in the Georgian-era Royal Suite were interrupted by prompt knocking at the door. Daph turned his head toward the threshold and narrowed his eyes at the pitiful meowing echoing from the corridor on the other side of the door.   
  
“Donna Noble, it’s Torchwood,” a woman whispered. “I have your cat.”  
  
Grabbing a spanner from the Doctor’s table, the redhead cautiously approached the door and looked through the peephole to reveal a young, well-manicured black woman in her thirties dressed in an expensive, olive-coloured pants suit and black wool coat holding a frightened, green-eyed white animal in her cat carrier. Since Belle was obviously unharmed and making relatively little fuss, she decided that the woman was unlikely to be an assassin. Donna quickly unlocked and opened the door, pulled the woman inside the flat, and locked the door behind them.   
  
“Who the ‘ell are you?” demanded Donna, yanking the carrier from the woman’s hands. “Where’s Jake?”  
  
“You’re welcome!” retorted the Torchwood agent. “Jake sent me over here; he’s at the Tylers’ mansion. Can’t be in two places at once.” She offered her hand to Donna. “I’m Adeola Oshodi.”  
  
Ignoring the woman’s greeting, Donna petted and kissed the now-freed elderly cat who mewed her displeasure at the situation before setting her down onto the floor. Daph, who had positioned himself defensively on the coffee table, walked excitedly before Belle, his tail curling gracefully in the air. Belle sniffed dismissively, turning her to hide at the feet of her human. Donna stood akimbo in front of the younger agent, her blue eyes flickering dangerously. “So, Agent Oshodi, where the hell are my husband and the Doctor?”  
  
“I was told that their current position was on a need-to-know basis. Right now, my job is to make sure you’re secured,” said Oshodi matter-of-factly.  
  
“Bollocks your cloak and dagger shite!” yelled Donna, balling her fists at her sides. “I need to know! In the past week, my life’s been turned upside down by this Doctor and now my husband, a simple bloody barrister, may be — no, correction — is in danger. And I’m not gettin’ bloody overtime outta this!”  
  
“Oi! Your problem with the Doctor is your problem! This Doctor’s been nothin’ but trouble since he arrived!” Adeola took several deep breaths to calm herself, then held up her hand to stop Donna’s impending wrath. “Look, I’ll call Jake and ask him for an update in a quarter of an hour. I’m sorry that you and your husband have been left in this situation. You’re not Torchwood, so it shouldn’t be your concern.”  
  
As the two women faced off, Daph crept toward the frightened white cat, folded ears back in concern. The smaller feline hissed at him, halting him in his tracks. The Scottish Fold sat down, sad orange eyes begging all three females to yield. Donna stared at Daph for a moment, then nodded, sitting back down on the sofa and gesturing for the woman to sit. “This isn’t my flat, so do forgive my rudeness,” she mumbled.   
  
Adeola, smiling slightly, accepted the invitation. Daph walked circuitously toward the younger woman whilst the outraged Belle Marquise, who had jumped into Donna’s lap, spat and growled at the smell of the half-alien’s recent presence. He stood erect before the woman, silently requesting permission to approach. Unaccustomed to the feline presence, Adeola tapped her fingers hesitantly against her leg. The blue-grey cat jumped into the arm of the chair, waiting for Adeola’s consent before moving closer. She gently raised her hand to scratch his head, content at that level of contact. Daph smirked, sinking down into a turkey-style sit on the arm. “Are they both your cats?” asked the Torchwood agent.  
  
“No,” replied Donna. “Belle’s mine, of course. Daph is the Spaceman’s cat.” At the heated snort from the Scottish Fold, Donna chuckled self-reproachfully, “Right you are, Daph. The Spaceman’s his human.” Adeola burst out laughing; at Daph’s irate orange eyes, she scratched his ears in apology. “I’m not laughing at you, Mister. I’m sorry you have to deal with such an arrogant arse.” Relaxing at the human’s comment, Daph raised his chin for his new friend to stroke.   
  
“You’re not kidding,” sniffed Donna. “Since I took this job a week ago, the poor sod can’t even be bothered to clean after himself like a normal adult! Even Shaun ain’t that bad! Then he takes me husband away to help his ex’s new bloke. ‘S like an episode of Coronation Street, only more…wizard!”   
  
Adeola’s body tightened in unexpressed anger as she rolled her eyes. “I’m not surprised. They say he’s nine hundred years old, but he’s like a bloody child! He goes from blowing up Torchwood Lab 3 and several years’ worth of confiscated tech to the top away mission we’ve had in a while.” She fidgeted irritably with her purple and brown silk scarf that had been a recent birthday present.  
  
Donna’s fifteen years in human resources trained her to note subtle, yet crucial changes in behaviour in potentially violent disgruntled employees and entitled sexual harassers. Whilst Agent Oshodi was decidedly not the latter, her passive-aggression toward the Doctor and indirectly, Pete Tyler, signalled the complexities of the former. Petting Belle, she noted offhandedly, “There’s seniority at Torchwood, yeah? I’d hate to tell the person next in line that their turn wasn’t up because of the Doctor.”  
  
Adeola’s smile did not reach her brown eyes. “Yeah, I was pissed off for days after. I’d waited five years for that assignment.”  
  
“And now?” inquired the redhead.  
  
Agent Oshodi shrugged, though her hard eyes remained fixed on the opposite wall. “I’m doing my duty. Another opportunity will come. I’ve been with Torchwood long enough. Least, that’s what my girlfriend tells me.”  
  
“Well, she’s a clever woman,” answered Donna neutrally. “You’ve been there a long time. I doubt Director Tyler has forgotten about you.”  
  
Before Adeola could respond, her Vitexphone buzzed and vibrated loudly in her coat pocket. Muttering her apologies, the Torchwood agent punched the green telephone key and said, “Oshodi here.” Her eyes suddenly widened. “Y-Yes, sir. Yes, Director Tyler.” Ten seconds later, the same eyes fixated confusedly on Donna. “What? You want me to --? Yes, sir. Straight away.” Donna watched in concern as Adeola put away the now inactive phone.  
  
“Agent Oshodi, what’s the matter?”  
  
“Ms Noble, there’s been an incident.” Before Donna could interject, the senior agent held up her hand, “Your husband’s fine. He’s with Director Tyler. It’s the Doctor. He’s had some sort of breakdown and has been sectioned at Torchwood One. The Director asked me to bring you to the medical centre immediately.” She rushed to the coat rack to fetch Donna’s coat.   
  
“Oi!” cried the redhead as she picked up Belle from her lap and gently set her on the sofa cushion warmed by their body head. “Now wait just a minute! Why me? Aren’t I supposed to be under protection from some psycho Swede and his Yank henchman?! What about the cats?”  
  
The agent tossed her the coat, stating authoritatively, “There’s no time. The cats will be fine. The Director said that it was an urgent matter and given that Agent Tyler’s missing, you’re listed as the Doctor’s next of kin.”  
  
Donna’s eyes widened into blue saucers. “WHAT?!”  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
Annual Christmas Benefit  
  
Tyler Mansion  
  
Saturday, 21 December, 2.19  
  
“Excuse me, madam, but you’re to deliver your speech in ten minutes,” called out Magda, one of her parents’ serving girls recently immigrated from Hungary. “Your husband and parents are waiting in the parlour.”   
  
“Thank you, Magda,” replied Rose Tyler-O’Reilly from her seated position on the stool in front of the bedroom’s mahogany vanity. Affixing the second of her diamond earrings into her left ear, she straightened the matching choker and smoothed an errant blonde strand from her chignon, her white gold wedding rings shining like miniature stars. Rising regally from the stool, she briefly admired the midnight blue silk evening gown with a light blue sweetheart neckline and spaghetti straps. Rose took a deep breath to calm the jitters in her stomach. Though she had given countless speeches since her final arrival in Pete’s World, public speaking had not come naturally to the former shop girl from Peckham. Thankfully, her father had arranged private lessons with the best speech and diction coaches at Oxford and the Old Vic. After a few months of dedicated work and support from her then-fiancé, Former FBI Agent John O’Reilly, the Vitex Heiress became the toast of London society. Taking a last glance in the vanity mirror, Rose Tyler-O’Reilly spun on her matching Italian-made sandal high heels toward the grand staircase. As she approached, her father stood in the middle of the stars, his still strong voice welcoming his guests to his home and introducing his accomplished daughter, the soon-to-be Doctor Rose Tyler-O’Reilly. She moved gracefully to join her parents and nodded politely to the applauding crowd at the foot, where her husband, dressed in a black tuxedo, stood attentively and eagerly. Rose and John had not seen each other in roughly a week due to a last-minute consulting assignment for which Pete specifically requested him. The smouldering looks that he sent her way during the speech lit her on fire and she heard herself at times rushing through the speech so that she could reunite with him.   
  
Fifteen minutes later, applause echoed again in the mansion and Rose sighed contently. Taking his waiting hand, Rose allowed John to escort her to the patio outside, knowing that she needed a few moments away from the former presidents, diplomats, members of Parliament, royal pretenders, and tycoons who comprised the Republic’s upper class. Taking two flutes of champagne from one of the servers, John offered one to his pensive wife, who graciously sipped the alcohol.   
  
“Fantastic job as always, sweet. I know you hate doing these things,” he whispered in her ear, letting his lips caress the lobe.  
  
Rose hummed contently and her lips turned upward at her husband’s attempts to make conversation of another type. John’s thin lips moved seductively from her ear to the back of her neck and he chuckled at his wife’s slight quivering. “I think in the back row, I saw the 7th Duke of Durham drooling over the way you talked about needy children. You know, you could marry into the old aristocracy. Probably make your mom ecstatic.”  
  
She tried to face her husband, but he kept her in place, wrapping his arms around her slim body. Revenge was in order. “That, I believe, is the 7th Baron of Bingham, and he has a mistress in every major city in Europe — so I’ve heard. I’ve no desire to be his bit of Peckham skirt. I was thinking of Henri, Pretender of the Belgian throne.”  
  
“He’s gay,” John growled possessively, teeth scraping her neck. “You deserve better.” Henri was still somewhat of a sore spot for the American, as the Belgian had brazenly chatted up his wife at her thirtieth birthday party, despite Rose pointedly reminding him in front of all that she was a happily married woman.   
  
The blonde chuckled in delight at her husband’s reaction. “Oh, you think that’s funny, do you, Mrs Tyler-O’Reilly?” she heard him grumble as he snaked his hand near the upper edge of her dress, making an unspoken promise. He snickered triumphantly at her sudden whimper.  
  
“Why, Sergeant O’Reilly, I do think you’re losing control,” hissed Rose seductively. Still carrying his champagne flute, John spun her around to face him, using his muscular frame to trap her against the chilly wall. Her eyes fluttered dreamily as his lips tickled hers. “Thirty minutes to meet and greet, Mrs Tyler-O’Reilly. Then it’s bedtime.”   
  
“How rude, Sergeant!” gasped Rose dramatically. “Our guests!”  
  
“They’re too busy brown-nosing your mother and former President Jones is no doubt busy trying to persuade your father to make a run in the next election,” he said in a mock posh accent between wet kisses. “They won’t miss a young heiress and her American husband catching up on a week’s worth of sex and telly.”  
  
The younger blonde snorted. “I dunno, are you sure that you’ll get any?”  
  
His blue eyes stared into her amber orbs. “I’m a married man; love, honour and beg.”  
  
Rose laughed out loud, wrapping her arms around her husband’s neck. “Well, then I’ll need nibbles to keep up my stamina for the evening, night and morning.” She deliberately trapped his mouth with her puffy lips. John was the first to break the kiss, relishing his wife’s whine of protest.   
  
“Well, sweet, you did order your husband to feed you. How in the hell am I supposed to fetch those scrambled eggs on toast you like if you keep distractin’ me?”  
  
“That’s Scotch woodcock, Yank,” she teased. “And don’t forget the chocolates!” John rolled his eyes, pecked his bossy wife on the lips and muttered with a smile that he would be back with her goddamn nibbles. Once alone, Rose giggled to herself like one of her little brother’s classmates. Under his gruff exterior of Army Ranger and bravado at Torchwood, John O’Reilly loved Rose’s domineering Prentice woman at home. Rose wondered if it was due to his Ojibwe heritage; though he rarely mentioned his mother or her family, John remarked that a strong woman kept the house resilient. On that note, she was secretly glad at John’s suggestion of quiet escape; both Jackie and the press had started to hound her for more heirs to the Tyler fortune. Little did they know that John had underwent a vasectomy some years ago. Thus, Tony became a surrogate son to John, especially following the Doctor’s disappearance in 2.14.   
  
An eternally familiar voice suddenly interrupted her thoughts with a faint “Rose Tyler.”  
  
Rose peered out into the open space of the property, where a tall, dark-haired man in a form-fitting blue suit and red trainers stood like a lonely statue. Her mouth twisted from shock to consternation. Crossing her arms, she retorted, “Actually, it’s Rose Tyler-O’Reilly now, Doctor. Where’s your TARDIS? I thought you’d be in the Andromeda Galaxy by now,” she asked in a slightly bitter tone.  
  
“What? The TARDIS? And how — how can you be married? I just saw you not even a day ago. I’ve been searching for you!” he said, worry and confusion marring his features.  
  
Rose scoffed incredulously. “Well, you’ve always been a crap driver. It’s been nearly five years. I married John O’Reilly in May 2.14. It was a beautiful wedding, one which you skipped entirely. Too domestic, I suppose. But then ‘round Christmas of that year, you just up and properly disappeared, leaving a certain five-year-old heartbroken ‘cos his hero ‘didn’t like him anymore’. Not even say a proper goodbye! I’m fine with it, Doctor, ‘cause I know you won’t ever stay. But Tony doesn’t understand that! Now, please leave; I don’t want a nine-year-old boy to be broken-hearted yet again, nor bloodshed if Mum realises you’re here.”  
  
Disturbed at Rose’s answer, the Doctor rushed anxiously up to his former companion and seized her ringed hand. “Rose, something’s been done to you. You’ve got to come with me, love.”  
  
As he tried to entwine his fingers with hers and tug her away from the mansion, Rose put her free hand against his chest and pushed away roughly. “Get off me, mate!” she shouted. She turned to run inside, but the Doctor enfolded her into his deceptively strong arms, covering her mouth to silence her screams, and pulled her from the French doors toward the green.   
  
“Listen to me, Rose! None of this is real! The date is December 2.13, not 2.19. You’re not married to John O’Reilly and your parents are worried sick about you in the real world!” hissed the Doctor inside her ear. “I’m worried about you!” Rose’s response was swift, using her Torchwood self-defence training to free herself and flip him onto his back with an audible groan. But his half-Gallifreyan reflexes enabled him to toddle to his feet within a fraction of a second, grabbing the blonde’s petite waist to prevent her escape.  
  
“Doctor, I don’t know if this is from time dilation or some sort of sickness, but you need help. Please, let’s go to Torchwood One, yeah? Have Tosh check you out?” suggested a now frightened Rose.  
  
The half-alien shook his head. “Rose, listen very carefully to me. Karl Björnstjerna has manipulated your mind and, if I’m not very careful, our minds. This existence you’ve been living is nothing but an illusion. We need to go now!”   
  
Rose tearfully bit her lip to stop the sob from fleeing her lungs. Though she had let go of the Doctor in Norway more than six years ago, she still considered him a friend and did not want him to fall ill or, worse, hurt those around him. Closing her eyes to take relax herself in the escalading situation, she felt him lead her away from the mansion like a lifeless mannequin. Hoping that she could hinder him just until John’s imminent return, she asked, “Doctor, if none of this is real, then why are you here?”  
  
The Doctor slowed their tracks; during the years that they travelled together, Rose learnt to tell when he was immediately telling the truth and when he was obfuscating. She heard his breath change to formulate a plausible scenario without revealing too much of the underlying horror that humanoids called truth. Choosing this moment to push him away a second time, Rose ran back to the house and called out for help. The Doctor latched onto her arm again, reeling her into his torso as gently as he could, when he found himself abruptly and roughly shoved to the cold ground.   
  
“Get the fuck away from my wife!” roared an American voice. The Doctor looked up to see a surprised and enraged John O’Reilly standing protectively in front of the accosted blonde.  
  
The alien’s lips curled in distaste. “Ah, Sheep-shagger, I should have known that you made a deal with the devil. Björnstjerna gets the world and you get Rose?”  
  
“Doctor, we have Torchwood’s best inside the mansion. Because Rose is your friend, I’m giving you this last opportunity to get in your TARDIS and leave,” the Ranger bellowed.  
  
Rising steadily to his feet, the Doctor glared meaningfully at the American. “I’m not leaving without her.”  
  
As John took a step forward and the half-human Doctor sneered at him defiantly, they heard a commanding feminine voice cry, “Stop!” The two men turned toward Rose, whose chest was heaving in anger and confusion. “Doctor, just go away!” she yelled, shaking her head. “I’m not coming with you. You, this you…left me five years ago. If you want me to be even more precise, you left me and Mickey seven years ago to fend for ourselves on a fifty-first century ship while you chased a bit of French skirt. I didn’t wanna believe it, but I’d been replaceable then as I was on that bloody beach in Norway. I wasn’t rich, long-lived or historically important, just a shop girl without A-Levels from Peckham. Otherwise, you would have risked crashing into this universe, just like you risked crashing into her timeline. ‘Pick a star’, you remember? It was left to me to return, like I promised, only for you to send me back. I did the honourable thing, Doctor, I let you go.” She walked to John O’Reilly’s side and took his hand. “But then, I met a man who stayed with me, who encouraged me to be who I am. In his world, I’m not second best like I was in yours. Now, Doctor, please let me live the life I want.”  
  
The Doctor’s formerly rigid posture slumped numbly at her words and his eyes changed colours from brown to steely black. “Rose, you were never second best, not ever,” his tenor tore on his last words. “This world, love, doesn’t exist. It’s the creation of a very disturbed and dangerous entity.”  
  
“Doctor,” Rose interrupted harshly, “have you ever trusted my judgment or was that too domestic for you? I have told you no. It’s complete sentence. Now, leave.”  
  
Before he could argue or come up with a spur-of-the-moment plan to leave this world with his unhappy companion, a strong wind blew him backward, disorienting him. Stretching out to grasp Rose’s arm, he heard echoed voices ordering someone to call a Doctor. Feeling sick to his stomach, he closed his eyes to prevent the nausea from overwhelming his senses.   
  
“Doctor Noble,” called out a calm, feminine voice. “Doctor, can you understand me?”   
  
Lying in a hospital bed, his arms restrained to his sides with slips of black leather, a sweaty Doctor James Noble thrashed and gasped, mouthing Rose’s name inaudibly. A few seconds later, he opened his weary eyes to reveal a private hospital suite with stark, white walls. He side-glanced to the EKG-like machine on his left and the IV connected to his right arm. The black leather jacket and clothes that he remembered wearing had been replaced by a baby blue cotton hospital gown and matching trousers. In a half-circle at the front of his bed stood Pete Tyler and Shaun Temple. A slender Japanese woman wearing a pair of red glasses and a white lab coat was leaning over him.  
  
“Doctor, you’re at Torchwood One’s A and E,” stated the medical officer, Dr Toshiko Sato. “You’ve had some sort of breakdown. Serotonin is unusually high, though given your Gallifreyan DNA, I’m not sure if that is normal.”  
  
“TNA,” interrupted the Doctor, gulping harshly and closing his eyes against the wave of nausea that threatened to overtake his senses. “Time Lord DNA is called TNA.”   
  
“Yes, of course. Other neurochemicals are present, though some I was unable to identify,” finished Tosh. “Oh, and do cut the pastries, Doctor. Consuming wheat-based and barley-based products will make your condition worse.”  
  
“What are you talking about, Tosh?” James asked irritably.   
  
“If normal blood tests are accurate for a Time Lord, you’re most likely a coeliac. Your iron, alkaline and vitamin counts are extremely low. It’s wise to avoid foods containing gluten, unless you want a damaged intestine,” concluded Tosh. “It’ll also help with the extra half-stone in water weight you’ve gained since July.”  
  
“Oi!” shouted an indignant James. He immediately regretted the outburst, as he gagged on rising bile in his throat. Tosh instantly held up a bedpan and, to his embarrassment, James vomited into the steel container like a fifty-year-old who had eaten too many Arcadian sugar candies. A minute later, the half-Gallifreyan spat the last of it and leaned his head back painfully to the thin pillow. “I’m fine now, so you can release me. Jus’ get me some paracetamol. Allergic to aspirin. Need to find Rose,” he moaned softly.   
  
Pete rubbed his tired eyes and, stepping toward the Doctor’s bed, shook his head. “Doctor, you’re in no condition to leave your bed, much less the hospital. You’re relieved until you pass a physical and psychological at Tosh’s discretion.”  
  
James’s dark eyes narrowed to black slits. Pulling at the restraints and gritting his teeth, he attempted to rip the leather-like fabric, which excruciatingly rubbed and bruised the skin of his wrists. Shaun stared at the scene in panic, glancing at the Director and Tosh expectantly, whilst Pete blinked tiredly in response. Growling in agony and in frustration at Rose’s father, the half-alien finally exhausted himself and collapsed on the bed. Shaun launched toward the Doctor to assist him, but Pete subtly held up a hand to wave off his intervention.   
  
“Sontaran leather. As you know, among the strongest in the galaxy,” said Pete emotionlessly.   
  
“Your daughter’s being held prisoner by a dangerous entity and the only being on this fucking planet who can save her is strapped like a common primate to an equally primitive hospital gurney! Typical Torchwood! Cut off your noses to spite your bloody faces! Maybe Rose Tyler’s expendable to you, Director Tyler, but she means everything to me!” screeched the half-alien whilst yanking once again on the leather straps.   
  
“Yes, precisely, Doctor. You were exposed to this entity and consequently, suffered a mental breakdown. Once Tosh manages to normalise your brain chemistry, we can discuss how we shall find Rose,” replied Pete resolutely.   
  
James’s black eyes became irately reptilian, challenging a surge of icy rage that he had safely and voicelessly tucked away following “John Smith’s” extraordinary three months in 1913. Disgust, outrage and vengeance coursed through his veins as he silently judged the Torchwood agents guilty of interfering with the Time Lord’s life-and-death search for his precious girl, the woman for whom he became mortal. If Pete Tyler refused to listen to the most resourceful man on Earth, he could plead his case with the Wrath of the Doctor. Flashing a menacing grin, he chortled, “Nah, you’re right. I should just stay here in bed while the world comes to an end. I came here to die in Pete’s World, actually — well, I guess that’s your world, innit — so I guess I should make myself comfortable. I would like to see Rose one last time, but her whereabouts will be forever unknown. Since I don’t have my phone with me, I can’t ring Jackie to wish her well and give my regrets that I couldn’t save her daughter or Tony, for that matter. Keep calm, carry on and all that.” He leaned back calmly and winked ominously at Tosh. She tried unsuccessfully to ignore the eerie pits of insanity that sparkled in the Doctor’s black orbs, as Pete and Shaun exchanged questioning looks. The elder man turned toward the now reclining Doctor who wordlessly warned him with those same, small oubliettes of desperation and madness. The name of the Doctor became his personal mantra against hopelessness, rage and death after Lumic and the Cyber Wars tore his comfortable life apart. From what Jackie and Rose told him, the Doctor was a fearless Robin Hood of the galaxy, a timeless champion. But just as Robin Hood had been accused of practising the ‘dark arts,’ the Doctor also had a very dark side which few have glimpsed. In his line of work, Pete knew when to tread carefully; a man could turn dangerous at any moment, yet a dangerous man with nothing to lose could that moment into years of destruction. Since the Doctor wanted his attention and like any man in interrogation, he reasoned to himself, he would give in to it for the sake of his daughter. Keeping his calm exterior in place, the Torchwood Director grabbed a brown and pink visitor’s chair behind him and set it near the Doctor’s bed. Sitting down, Pete voiced, “Alright, Doctor, tell me what you know. Help us help you.”  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
Jake Simmonds slammed his hand irately on the wooden mahogany desk next to the private Torchwood interface in Pete’s large study, where Jackie had left him in privacy to conduct his own investigation into his best mate’s disappearance. The Manc rubbed his hands nervously over his face to clear the mental cobwebs of worry, fear and hopelessness over Rose’s fate. He had conducted an extensive background check of Minister Karl Björnstjerna, a man who was remarkable only in his ordinariness. Born in Stockholm in 1965, Björnstjerna came from an old noble family and modest money for an aristocrat; he went to gymnasium in Sweden and New Germany, received his licence from the Sorbonne and a Master’s degree from the London School of Economics. Reportedly, he spoke seven languages fluently with solid knowledge of Russian and Arabic. In early 20.6, he was appointed by the Swedish Prime Minister as an attaché to their Embassy in Washington, DC, then to France in 2.12. As expected, his time in America was classified top secret by both the United States Government and the Swedish Prime Minister’s Office. Surprisingly, none of us underground sources — terrestrial or extra-terrestrial — yielded any leads. Any alien who wished to stay on Earth, no matter the duration, had to submit to careful screening at Torchwood One. No guest — the Doctor included — had slipped past Pete Tyler’s radar until now. If the Home Office discovered that two ordinary academics had become possessed by unknown alien vectors, in addition to the international clusterfuck that was the O’Reilly Affair, Torchwood would almost certainly be defunded in favour of UNIT, a dodgy paramilitary wing known for its hard-line approach and xenophobia. Jake wiped his cold sweaty hands on his blue jeans, willing himself to think of another avenue of investigation. Jake’s blue eyes widened. Pressing a button on Pete’s desk, he said, “Pierre, can you come to Pete’s study? I need your help, mate.”   
  
Five minutes later, a casually-dressed Pierre Cohen entered the study. Jake gazed at him appreciatively; the young, fit, brown-haired man in his black CERN tee-shirt, clashing pyjama bottoms and black-rimmed spectacles could easily pass as the Doctor’s younger brother. “You wanted my help, Jake?” he asked.   
  
Turning quickly toward the console, Jake replied, “Yes, Pierre. You’re good with computers, yeah? I need some information to find Rose and it’s presently located on the US Department of Defense server. Could you…?”  
  
“Hack it?” finished Pierre with a raised eyebrow. “I suppose I could, but given that the Americans are looking for us, is that wise?”  
  
“Mate, listen, we’re running out of time. Rose’s missing, Björnstjerna’s outplaying us and I haven’t the foggiest where that American bloke is. Probably lookin’ for O’Reilly,” he said with a sneer.   
  
Pierre searched the man’s face, then slightly nodded. Jake stood up for the Frenchman to take his seat; after sliding into the black swivel chair, Pierre accessed the terminal and typed various commands, creating a name and password through binary-eleven. Once he was granted access, he typed in a second list of codes and passwords. “This will bounce us off Dubai’s satellites; it’ll look like someone with clearance at the NSA is accessing Sipernet,” he explained to Jake, who was staring blankly at the screen. A second later, the system displayed. “We only have thirty minutes at most before we get hacked,” said Pierre.   
  
Jake ran a hand through his spiky blond hair. “Right, look for anything related to Björnstjerna or John O’Reilly.”   
  
Pierre typed furiously into his command search, then shook his head. “Nothing, Jake. Sipernet is specifically for secret projects and communiqués.”  
  
The Northerner frowned. “That’s odd. An Army Ranger’s missions wouldn’t be on Sipernet? Or a Swedish attaché presumably on both the British and American side? That doesn’t make any sense. Is this the only secret network?”  
  
Pierre swivelled to face Jake, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “There is a network that’s top secret. Infinity calls it Archive 8472; only the Cheshire Cat has ever seen it, as it is exceedingly difficult to hack. Rumour has it that if you try and fail, you’ll be arrested within hours.”  
  
The blond squinted in confusion. “This Cheshire Cat, he’s a hacker?”  
  
“Yes, he comes and goes. No one knows who or what he is,” replied Pierre.  
  
“Can you contact him? This file may be the only lead to finding Rose,” asked Jake.  
  
Before Pierre could answer, Jake’s Vitexphone buzzed loudly in his pocket. Holding up a finger whilst Pierre quickly logged out of the Sipernet server and covered his tracks, Jake pressed the green phone key and held the device to his face. “Cyril, mate, this isn’t a good time.”  
  
The video screen displayed the live image of a well-groomed, black-haired man in his early-forties dressed in a designer grey suit with faint blue stripes and white Oxford. His normally confident green eyes carried a nervous expression uncharacteristic of the most powerful media executive in Great Britain. “Jake,” he began in a somewhat subdued Australian accent, “I wish this were a courtesy call, but I wanted to give you warning of a story that we’re running at the ten o’clock news. It involves Torchwood and the Tylers.”  
  
Gazing at Pierre, the Torchwood agent switched immediately to audio only and, holding the phone to his ear, glared suspiciously at his boyfriend. “A story? Of what exactly? No. NO! Cyril, goddamnit, it’s fuckin’ bollocks, all of it! I’m warning you, don’t run it! No, I’m not threatening you! What’s your evidence? Oh, fuck off!” he finally screamed into the phone, clicking the red button to end the call. Jake threw the phone to the sofa opposite the desk, yelling a string of obscenities that would have earned a solid slap from his grand mum were she still living. Breathing heavily, Jake neither noticed the puzzled expression of Pierre, nor the strong footfalls of a pink-robed Jackie Tyler thumping toward the study.   
  
“What the hell is matter with you, Jake? Tony’s sleepin’ and…” the elder woman began before Jake’s worried look interrupted her tirade. “What?” she asked in a softer tone.   
  
Instead of replying, Jake pressed a button on the mahogany desk that turned on the flat-screen television and checked his watch. He grumbled another curse under his breath, as Cyril’s story of the year was to run in less than an hour. Looking up at Pierre, Jackie, then at Ahmad and Claire who were at the door frame, he whispered, “Jackie, this is going to get ugly. We need to phone Pete and the Doctor immediately. The Mirror’s runnin’ a story alleging that Rose and Torchwood are responsible for the bombing in Paris, that she’s Infinity. Cyril claims that he has proof from a credible source.”


	40. The Drumhead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes: Apologies for the long wait. Between PhD stuff and being sick, I haven't had a chance to write and post. Some more clues herein; I am taking some liberties with relativistic physics and parallel universe theory (M-Theory). This isn't scientific, but then again, we don't know for certain, as the math has yet to be proven with empirical data. My assertion about spacetime being relative and not absolute, however, is correct. This chapter is on the shorter side, as it felt right to end it here. However, a longer one is coming.

 

 

**The Drumhead**

* * *

Adeola pinched the bridge of her nose in annoyance as Donna tried to console the high-pitched yowling of the enraged Scottish Fold and the pitiful mewing of Belle inside James Noble's flat. Instead of proceeding to Torchwood One as planned, the two women remained in the flat corridor, helpless to prevent the Daph's cries and the dull thuds of his seven-kilogramme body ramming in protest against the door.

"Daph, stop it!" Donna admonished from the other side as the cat continued to vocalise and hiss his complaints. The redhead shushed him in a vain attempt to calm him, but the cat continued undeterred, answering with a roaring yowl.

"Bloody hell! Let's go, Donna!" urged Adeola impatiently.

Donna's blue eyes flashed angrily. "Agent Oshodi, I know your job description may only pertain to little green men, but I have a little blue one who's about to alert the Bobbies and keep us from gettin' to Torchwood at all! Now, I have no bleedin' idea what in the bloody hell my husband is doing, nor do I know what's exactly happened to the Doctor, but I am not about to leave two scared cats behind just to play James Fucking Bond! I go where the cats go!" She hurriedly fished out the spare key to James's flat and unlocked the door, revealing the frightened green orbs of Belle and the burning orange ones of the Marquis, who let out a stentorian hiss in Adeola's direction.

"Alright, Daph, that's quite enough from you! In the carrier you go!" Donna yelled, pointing to the cat carriers near the sitting room table. Daph rolled his eyes and, looking briefly at Belle, sauntered to his cage, his tail waving in the air like a victory flag.

****

_"Good evening, I'm Jessica Crowley for the televised edition of the Mirror,"_ announced the anchorwoman whose low-cut brown blouse, fitted charcoal trousers and perfect makeup screamed Louis Vuitton model more than journalist. _"Our top story comes from an anonymous source within the office of the Swedish Embassy in Paris: According to our source, London's leading and most controversial extra-terrestrial organisation, Torchwood, has been guarding a dark secret, one that may draw the British Republic into terrestrial hostilities with both France and Sweden. The Director's reclusive daughter, Rose Tyler, whose whereabouts during the Darkness remain unknown, has been conclusively linked to Infinity, the terrorist organisation allegedly responsible for the Paris bombing on 5 December."_

The camera cut to an undated photograph of Rose Tyler and John O'Reilly sitting together intimately among locals and tourists at the Champs-de-Mars. _"Agent Tyler's paramour, whom we have identified as Special Agent John O'Reilly of the FBI branch in New York, may be the masked man photographed earlier in the custody of Director Tyler. But unlike most couples in the City of Lights, they were allegedly there for more than la vie en rose. The source has told the Mirror that Ms Tyler was considered as a primary person of interest by the Paris police, but was released due to the influence of her father, leaving her lover to take the fall for her crime. We have contacted the Home Office for comment…"_

"Allegedly, the worst bloody word in the English language," bit out an irritated Pete Tyler who crossed his arms tighter at every calumnious word uttered by the Crowley Bitch, the most loathed journalist at Torchwood. "That cow's no doubt havin' a goddamned field day."

"This is libel," said Shaun. "They'll have to retract the story."

The Doctor's eyes narrowed and blackened. A Time Lord mind was a wondrous machine: It was capable of calculating quadrillions of outcomes in a fraction of a second, invented and controlled black holes and built the mightiest empire in the history of Universe Prime. It was also capable of inventing a rudimentary transporter to send tarty journalists and randy Rangers to the thirty-sixth century Empire of the Alligators, where human flesh was a prized delicacy.

"True in theory," replied Pete, eyeing the barrister. "However, certain MPs will nonetheless call for a special investigation. It's hardly a secret that Torchwood has, shall we say, fallen out of favour for its 'negotiations with hostile aliens.' Parliament, with UNIT, have been itching to shut us down and enact what they call defence measures. They may be barristers, Mr Temple, but that fact only makes them better at manipulating the law."

Shaun shook his head. "And this Björnstjerna knew this."

"Precisely, Mr Temple. Should we find Rose, we'd have to turn her over for questioning, making it in our best interests not to find her at this time," growled Pete, turning back to the television screen. "Bravo, Minister Björnstjerna or whatever the hell you are, you've played the game well."

"We need to find her, Pete. Just as with any human abduction, the more time that elapses, the less chance that we'll find her alive. We just need to think!" interjected the Doctor, gripping the hospital bed sheets in lieu of his wild brown strands of hair. Before Pete could respond, the Doctor continued, "What does Björnstjerna need? Why Rose? She's the key, but to what?"

"Doctor —" began the Director, but he found himself once again cut off by the agitated half-alien.

"There are two intertwined games: Björnstjerna and his butter cookie-eating lackey on the one hand, the Yanks on the other, with John O'Reilly as a focal point. O'Reilly removed evidence from the bombing site, he's been taking an interest in Rose — and frankly, so has Björnstjerna — he knows our trigger-happy Yank friend, Kepler's journal at the Pasteur was partly written in Ojibwe, a journal written by a native speaker 400 million years in the future that meant nothing to us…At the time," he breathed, his eyes enlarged at his silent epiphany. "Oh, Rose…" he whispered sadly.

"Doctor? What about Rose?" asked Pete uncertainly, his blue-green eyes narrowing in confusion.

James gulped, his glassy brown eyes fixated on a spot at the end of his hospital bed, but just below Pete, and his lips slackened. "But why the message? What's Björnstjerna planning on the Long Night Moon, the 17th of December? Why does he want Rose?"

"Doctor," interrupted Pete harshly, as Shaun looked on with interest and fear, "the obvious question: who the hell is Björnstjerna? What species are we dealing with here? If he got inside your head, could he..? Could he be a Time Lord?"

James glanced irately up at the Director, his eyes reflecting a moonlight darkness in the other man's green irises. "Time Lords only existed in Prime. For my people, travelling between parallel worlds was like a Londoner taking a day trip to Dover. There are no others left."

"But Doctor, when you, Rose and Mickey first arrived here in 20.6, you were unfamiliar with this world. Surely, you would have known about us had the Time Lords visited this universe," Pete replied.

James shook his head, his eyes still glassy and unfocussed. "Time isn't perfectly linear, nor is it absolute, Pete. For you, fifty-nine years have passed as a succession of events: birth, marriage, fame and fortune, the Cyber Wars, a second marriage, the birth of Tony, the adoption of Rose as your own and then present time. But your personal timeline isn't that of the universe. This universe's timeline is 13.8 billion years. But from the reference frame of Universe Prime, this universe is actually four years old."

"Oh, come on!" exclaimed Shaun, rolling his eyes sceptically. "Donna said you were a nutter, but this is ridiculous! If the universe were only four years old, Director Tyler and I would be older than the universe, as would half of London. I didn't get my A-Level in Physics, but even I know that's impossible!"

"Shaun, imagine an immensely large sphere," said James, his hands attempting to make a cup gesture despite the restraints. "It is so large that, just like on Earth, you can't perceive its edges. It looks endless and flat to you. However, if you're at, say, 12,000 metres above the Earth, on a clear day, you would be able to see its curvature. Parallel worlds work the same way; within the sphere that is your universe, it seems boundless and flat. But that doesn't mean that it's not a sphere — Calabi Yau manifoldy-sphere, mind."

"Doctor, how do you know that it's four years old?" inquired a frowning Pete.

James gave Rose's father a hard stare, his eyes like small pieces of obsidian. "Because I was there when it was created."

****

John O'Reilly gazed restlessly at the ceiling of his prison cell, counting the cracks from age and lack of upkeep as he lay on his cot. It kept him from minding the painful, finger-sized bruises around his neck and the throbbing ache of his black eye.

He was an Army Ranger; pain was irrelevant to the mission to find and rescue Agent Rose Tyler.

After Director Tyler, the Clowndick and his supposed lawyer had left, he surreptitiously checked the locks on the door for any breaks or mechanical weaknesses. Sadly, they were the only twenty-first century thing in the Tower. Until his Latin and Greek-speaking gaoler returned, the Cowboy knew he was an unwilling guest, a fact which only made him more anxious to find his missing Rose. Though Pete was an exceptionally intelligent and a savvy investigator, whose tactics John had seen in only the most gifted of government agents, his patience and fortitude would inevitably be fucked up either by Number Ten's general incompetence or by the Clowndick. John bristled at the very thought of the half-alien's presence in their lives. Why the fuck couldn't he have just stayed in his own fucking universe? He had known from his first night with Rose that the Great Physician would send her back to their world. Rose put on the pants and did the Coward's job: despite the learning differences that undermined her self-confidence in school, she studied temporal physics and mechanical engineering and managed to design and construct part of the Dimension Cannon with Dr Malcolm Taylor's assistance. But time and space were a bit like the Wild West; everyone, including the Doctor, wanted his or her own piece and bent the rules to keep it. Rose defied the Time Lord, much to his chagrin. Yet the Clowndick could not and perhaps would not admit that this Björnstjerna, by making Rose simply disappear, had to be much more powerful than anyone they had encountered. He recalled the Somnium's subtle, yet ironic message: The Demon made Kepler see the rotation of the Earth and the Moon's civilisations. Was he bewitched or was it true?

_The Devil you know versus the Devil you don't._

"Ah, that's the question, John. Who's the devil?" rasped a female voice against the silence of the cell.

John leapt from his bed and faced the redheaded woman, who was dressed in a blue business suit and maroon jumper. "You again. Why are you here? Wait, how did you get here?" he demanded.

The bossy woman crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. "For an Army Ranger, you're rather thick. You went from asking the right question to worrying about trivialities. I don't have time, and neither does Rose, Sergeant O'Reilly."

John's blue eyes squinted confusedly at the woman before him. "Rose sent you? Where is she?"

"She's in danger. Great danger, John. Björnstjerna has…"

"Goddamnit, woman!" shouted the Ranger, closing the distance to centimetres of her position. "Stop with the fuckin' fortune cookie riddles! Where. Is. Rose? How do I know you're not one of Björnstjerna's games? Last I checked, James Noble ended up in the hospital from getting mindfucked. Though he's a half-alien Clowndick moron, that's apparently not easy to do."

"Oi!" growled the woman, her blue eyes flashing with her freckled face. "I am not woman, Sergeant Yankee Doodle! I am also not a figment of some butter-cookie munchin' Swede's perverted imagination. Now, Muscles, stop with the bloody display of testosterone and listen."

John crossed his own arms and arched a sandy blond eyebrow at the Redhead. "Fine. Speak plainly and I'll listen, Red."

The woman huffed irritably and walked through a newly-created open door, with John following her a few seconds later. They reappeared in front of tall stained-glass windows, a white and grey marble altar covered in red silk and gold candlesticks, and paintings of the teachings and resurrection of Jesus Christ in the background. She walked to the right, wading between wooden chairs and kneeling benches, as John knelt and crossed himself respectfully before the large gold cross and marble altar. Rising a moment later, he joined the redhead at a life-sized golden statue of the Madonna and Child and their alter of candles.

She gestured at the red shoes of the Golden Lady. "I've always wanted shoes like that. Look Italian, too." John gazed pointedly at the mysterious woman. "This is St. James Catholic Church, Spanish Place. You've attended every Sunday mass here since your arrival in London. It's unremarkable; St. Etheldreda's Church is much older and more significant for Catholics. However, there is this statue, innit? It's called…"

"Our Lady, Queen of Heaven," finished John. "But this doesn't explain where Rose is."

"Again, you're asking the wrong question. By your own admission, Minister Björnstjerna is more powerful than even the Doctor," said the woman.

He rolled his eyes irritably. "Oh, cut the crap, Red. If I'm askin' the wrong question, then tell me the question I should be asking! All I know is that some Swede with a God complex is apparently duking it out with a half-alien blowhard whose God complex is just as large, using my girlfriend as bait! I've read the Somnium; as far as I can tell, it's a tall tale. Alien civilisations on the moon?! For being a famous scientist, Kepler had a wild imagination. But it has nothing to do with Magnussen's book." John hissed the last words in the whisper guiltily, leaning toward his companion as if awaiting a stern priest to shush him for raising his voice in a house of the Almighty.

"Doesn't it?" she asked in a normal tone. "Do you honestly believe that any of this is sheer coincidence?" Fixing her gaze at the young face of the golden Mary, she continued, "A seventeenth-century book about aliens, another in Ojibwe of all things written 400 million years in the future? Patrick McGee's reappearance in your life, Björnstjerna in the shadows? Boston? Past, present and future are all converging on you, John O'Reilly."

"Me? Are you saying that Rose's disappearence has to do with me?" breathed John, furtively observing the young and golden Madonna clutching the precious and worldly baby Jesus.

The Redhead's middle-aged lips turned up in a slight smile, though her blue eyes radiated an ancient sadness and sympathy. "You don't choose Fate, she chooses you. She has chosen you to close this gap in time. You're going to have to make a choice."

John frowned inquisitively. "What choice is that?" Silence fell in the cathedral; he turned his head in annoyance, only to find that his companion had vanished. The Ranger whirled his body around in confusion and disbelief, then stepped backward three steps and touched one of the wooden chairs. The smooth, yet aged wood felt cool to his fingers. He then marched forward to the candles at the foot of the golden Madonna and held his palm over the lit candle. A second later, the heat from the bright flame forced John to withdraw his hand. His mysterious companion had left him in the cathedral as a liberated fugitive.

Where would he go?

The Ranger knew he had little time to escape; assuming that the Redhead had simply altered his position in space rather than space-time, the Tower gaolers would have undoubtedly discovered an empty room within minutes of his disappearance and called for a search of Greater London. But given the embarassment of an American successfully fleeing Britain's most secure prison, the chances of media involvement were improbable. After considering his options, there was only one left. It was a risk that he would have to take.

 


	41. Abel and Cain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes: A warning for one ethnic slur that's in context/character and not glorified in any manner.

 

 

**Abel and Cain**

* * *

 

Dr Toshiko Sato huffed her displeasure for the eleventh time that evening, having to _once again_ make an _exception_ for the Doctor in _her_ medical centre. Visiting hours for the few that were hospitalised at Torchwood One had passed more than three hours ago; yet crammed inside James Noble's room were the Director himself, who was on the phone with Jackie's very _irately-pitched_ voice, the barrister, Shaun Noble, who was stroking a frightened Belle whilst studiously avoiding the small blue flame-like orbs of the cross-armed Donna, and a snarling blue-grey ball of fur who spat, hissed and scratched at everyone except for the redheaded woman.

"Oi, Tosser! Put the pitchforks away!" growled the Doctor at the crouched animal. Daph turned to him, folded ears flat on his head, and let out a half-meow, half-spit. Though still restrained, James slowly slid up the bed to a sitting position in a meagre attempt to defend himself, but the cat leapt at him with lightning speed, pouncing on his chest and extending a clawed paw toward his jugular. As James's brown eyes narrowed in a sparkling mixture of anger and surprise, Daph calmly sank down, his honed claws resting a centimetre from the skin of the half-human's neck. The Scottish Fold turned his round head to face a slightly anxious Tosh, who was standing a metre from the Doctor's IV, and yawned at her, assuredly flashing his yellowed razor-sharp teeth.

"Nice cat," quipped Tosh, as she cautiously approached the IV.

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "He's _not my_ cat! He's a bloody nuisance!" A moment later, Tosh heard the half-Gallifreyan cry out in pain at the two new punctures on his neck. "You see that?! He's the meanest _felis catus_ that ever was!"

"Sounds like the cat's doing you a favour then," grumbled the Japanese physician whilst checking his IV bag.

As Shaun started to chuckle at the scene before him, his wife elbowed him in the ribs. Donna then rounded on the Doctor. "What the _hell_ did you do, James Noble? When the _hell_ did I ever agree to be your bloody next-of-kin?" she thundered. A stunned Shaun formed a soundless question at the Doctor. Pete clutched the Vitexphone to his right ear and stuck his left index finger into his ear to block out the woman's fury.

James frowned at her in alarm. He certainly did _not_ put down Donna Noble as his emergency contact, as he had only met this universe's Donna a few days ago. That honour belonged to Rose, who was lost in a world created by the _Björnstjerna entity_. Inwardly, James considered his options. Under no circumstances would he tell the truth. This Donna Noble was _not_ _his_ Donna from Universe Prime. But like _his_ Donna, she could spot a lie from the Andromeda Galaxy, no matter how plausible it may seem.

"Don't even think about lying to me, Spaceman!" she glowered.

"I'm your … cousin," he finally stammered. "Same last name and all."

Donna arched an eyebrow. "Really? That's curious, as my dad was an only child. So unless you're a _very distant_ relative, you just lied to me, which I warned you was a very _bad idea_." She leaned over him slightly, looking at Daph. "If he lies again, you know what to do."

James's eyes widened at Donna, then at the cat lying atop him. "You wouldn't!" he gasped. "The Donna I knew…." All mouths fell open.

_Shit._

The Doctor mentally jettisoned his latest regeneration into the black hole humans referred to as Cygnus X-1. Thanks to Universe Prime's Donna's natural tendency to gossip, this _new new new_ body apparently had looser lips than Piers Morgan.

"The Donna you knew _what,_ Doctor?" questioned Donna.

"Ms Noble, please allow me to explain," the tired-looking Pete Tyler cut in, now off the hook with his wife. " _I_ put you down as his contact."

Donna spun around to face the elder man. "Without my permission?! I don't know much about bloody Torchwood, but I'm fairly sure that there are several laws you've broken. Shaun's a barrister and he'll —"

"Donna!" barked Pete. "You can sue me if you like, but we have bigger problems! I put you know as his contact because like it or not, you _are_ related to him. Do you remember the Darkness?"

"Yeah, who doesn't?" retorted the redhead.

"The stars went out. That's true," Pete said, gesturing with his fingers. "What we didn't tell the public is that they went out in _every universe_. For that period of time, we could pass freely between them. That's what my daughter, Rose, did. That's what _this_ Doctor did," he concluded, moving his hand to point at James.

She set her full lips into a thin line at her superior. "Fine. Somehow, I buy that. But that doesn't explain how I'm related to _him,_ or why you wanted me to work for you."

Pete grimaced, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "No, it doesn't," he admitted.

"Pete, that's enough!" objected the Doctor. "She's not the _same_ Donna!"

"That's funny, Doctor. I believe you said the same thing about me and my first Jackie Tyler," he replied acerbically. At the Doctor's silence, he continued. "There was an accident. This Doctor came from the hand of his predecessor and a sampling of human DNA. He kept the same form, but only partly human."

Donna gasped audibly, sinking toward the ground. Dropping Belle to the floor, Shaun moved to catch his wife by the shoulders. "Donna!" he screamed. Belle rushed to the corner furthest underneath James's hospital bed. The worried husband glared at the Torchwood Director and as he supported his shocked spouse, yelled, "What the _bloody_ hell are you trying to pull?!"

"I'm sorry," Pete calmly answered. "I'd hoped that you would find out at a later time after you and the Doctor formed the alliance that you once had shared." He twisted his head toward the enraged alien in the bed. "That's why I didn't want you out in the field, Doctor. The risk of capture and harm is far too great at this time."

"Why me?" she managed to rasp.

"We were friends, the best of friends," interjected James quietly. "I had no idea that _I_ would be created. I was trying to avoid dying or regenerating. That's what my people do when they're injured fatally, as you lot would say. We change our bodies, even our personalities, to avoid death. But anyway, I was created out of you. Now, I'm out of regenerations. So if I die, I'm truly dead. No coming back." Though his voice tore on the last words, the Doctor never waivered from Donna's scrutinising gaze.

Inhaling deeply, Donna pushed herself upright, once again balanced on her own feet. Stroking Shaun's arm to soothe his anxiety, she looked down at Daph. "And what happened to her, _me?_ "

As Pete looked on in sympathy, James's eyes darkened in horror, anguish and anger. "She died," he hissed.

"Died? _How?_ " she demanded.

"She didn't survive the DNA exchange. She gave _everything_ to save me, okay?! Are you both _bloody well_ true and happy?!" James suddenly screamed. "And now, I can't even protect _this_ Donna, let alone my wife…" He agitatedly threaded his fingers into his bedsheets to keep himself from finishing the sentence.

"Director Tyler, Ms Noble, as Doctor Noble's physician, this is quite enough!" interrupted Tosh. "His neurochemicals are already elevated and I won't have another breakdown."

"Your wife?" asked Shaun, ignoring Tosh.

"I believe he may be referring to Rose," said Pete flatly.

"Right, everyone _out_!" commanded the physician, as James began to cry and murmur uncontrollably. Shaun and Donna obediently filed out of the room whilst Pete lingered to observe the scene. She quickly filled a syringe and despite growls from Daph, stuck it into the Doctor's arm. Ten seconds later, James's eyes closed and his rigid body fell slack onto the bed. She glanced up at a remorseful Pete in the doorway. "Out!" she repeated with a growl.

Pete exited the hospital room to face two angry civilians and a confused Agent Adeola Oshodi, who had been standing guard since her and Donna's arrival. Wincing at himself for what seemed the millionth time and silently wishing that he could go back to being a simple salesman, he mustered all of his courage to answer to the formidable Donna Noble and her barrister husband.

He did not expect the sting of a hand against his right cheek.

"Bastard!" hissed Donna. "I don't know what MI5 or the Home Office allows you to pull, but last time I checked, we do have rule of law in Great Britain!"

As Shaun attempted to restrain his furious wife, Pete rubbed his cheek, noting painfully that a Noble slap was equal in power and fury to that of a Prentice woman.

"Madam, if you're quite satisfied now, I need your help. _We_ need your help," mumbled the Director. He nodded at Oshodi to take her leave. She reluctantly acknowledged the silent order tersely and marched down the corridor to take a more distant position.

"Help?!" bellowed Shaun, stepping between Pete and Donna. "First, _Director_ Tyler, you rope my wife into this insane organisation that doesn't seem to think that basic human rights are needed in a free society. Then you exploit her for whatever it is you're after with that lunatic James Noble. As her barrister, I formally and respectfully tell you to bugger off!"

"Precisely," replied Pete with a slight smile. "Which is why Infinity needs your help to stop Björnstjerna."

****

Karl Björnstjerna's eyes closed in concentration and bliss as his slender fingers slid, wiggled and fluttered like magic wands across the ebony grand piano that contrasted against the ersatz yellow of generated light and otherwise unfurnished space. He smiled, even as he felt the presence of his annoying subordinate in an American suit. Humans did not have much in food and culture, save their piano music. Since his arrival to this universe a little over four hundred years ago, he had the privilege of witnessing the greatest human pianists' and composers' concerts: Bach, Mozart, Brahms, Beethoven, Liszt, Rachmaninoff and Ligeti.

"Ah, no composer will ever compare to Liszt," voiced Björnstjerna to his unseen companion as he finished the last note of Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody No. 17.

Raincoat Man appeared into the artificial incandescence of the luxury apartment's piano room. "That's your opinion."

"That's _fact_!" insisted the Swede, twisting his seated body on the piano bench toward the man. "Liszt is among the most technically difficult composers to play, let alone correctly. But I don't expect an American to appreciate music, or at least beyond Beyoncé."

The American scoffed. "This is coming from guys who eat rotten fish and dance like idiots in a Xanax-induced circle?"

Björnstjerna shrugged slightly before rising from the bench to the mini bar across the room. "At least my name isn't Patty," he sneered, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

"You will have to change bodies soon," noted the other man. "I can tell that your cancer has metastasized. Your body's end is inevitable at this point. Not even _She_ can save you."

"I won't need her to save me. Our Lady has succumbed to her slumber and it's only a matter of time before we can harvest her energy and bring our Friends into the Land of the Ephemerals," retorted Björnsterna, gulping down the alcohol.

"We need the energy _now_!" said the Raincoat Man. "The virus is a temporary extension on human life and, as your cancer suggests, can have deleterious effects on an Ephemeral. You haven't thus been able to counter the microscopic differences between this universe and Prime."

"Patience is a virtue, or so the humans say," replied the Swede, wiping his mouth with his mauve silk suit handkerchief whilst reaching once again for the decanter. "The Home Office will be too busy chasing the tails of Torchwood and Infinity to care about our plan. Besides, I'd think they'd be grateful, as I've _killed two birds with one stone_." He smirked into his refilled glass.

"And what of John O'Reilly and James Noble? They're overly attached to the Lady and are therefore a problem," growled the American in the dark raincoat.

"As I said before, my dear Patrick, James Noble is a shadow of a man, both figurately and literally. John O'Reilly will no doubt be thrown into the deepest and darkest pit that Britain, France and Sweden can find," laughed the Swede arrogantly. He emptied and set the glass down on the granite counter and preceeded to straighten the cuffs of his two-thousand-quid grey suitcoat. Then he looked at the seemingly perturbed brown-haired American. "I've never understood how humans relate to one another in a familial manner. How _does_ it feel to know that you've betrayed your own half-brother?"

Patrick McGee shrugged, though unlike his previous body, a cold-hearted Danish academic who stopped at nothing for fame, fortune and notoriety, a dull thud ached in his chest at the thought of John and their father, Jack. "I am fairly certain that I felt nothing but hatred and envy for the boy who was living _my_ life. The little Indian shit deserved what he got," he replied tersely.

Björnstjerna hummed in response, then entered an external corridor with Patrick following closely behind him. The Swede whistled Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 and clasped his hands behind his back as he walked evenly to a Victorian-style marble staircase and proceeded to descend three floors. He approached a white marble wall and traced the outline of a door with his finger. As his digit caressed the stone, a fiery red silouette of a large door appeared, revealing a secret, hellish passage. The two men strode confidently inside to a cave-like structure, pitch-black and futuristic, that seemed to expand for thousands of metres in all directions. Björnstjerna and Patrick became ant-like to the _millions_ of fluorescent blue pods, each containing humanoid figures in a suspended memento mori; some of them had their eyes closed whilst years-old terror was etched in others' bloodshot and inky eyes.

"Dead or alive, only time will tell," Björnstjerna chortled. "They wanted to live. So they shall."

Patrick snickered darkly. "I wonder if John's retard crew are in here? Stupid Grunt fuckers infected themselves in Boston if I recall correctly."

The Swede turned to the American, eyebrow raised. "Oh yes. I forgot about Boston. _They went down to the river, they sat down on the bank. They tried to think but couldn't, so they jumped in and sank._ Well, except for our lovesick Yank friend," he spoke with amusement. "But to answer your question, I believe the Americans incinerated the bodies. As you well know, Patrick McGee was among the few to survive the virus's effects, at least for now."

The Raincoat Man roared with laughter. "I never thought that when I brought those idiots the serum that this body would be my saving grace. An irony and a pity." He shook his head, wiping his eyes. "Anyway," he continued, "where is _She_? Where've you hidden her?"

A devilish grin spread across the Swede's face. He leaned into the other man's ear and whispered, "How do you think this sanctuary is being powered?"

Patrick beamed in comprehension. "I should have known. So when do we proceed?"

"Soon. We must keep up the pretense with the humans a bit longer."

****

From behind a large English oak, John O'Reilly shivered against the cool night breeze as he surveilled the Torchwood agents casing the perimetre of the Tylers' mansion. He was still breathing harshly from his _double-time_ run in the London shadows to avoid capture from MI5 and his trench-coated fuckwit of a half-brother.

 _Why couldn't you keep it in your pants, Dad?_ he thought for the millionth time.

The Army Ranger fought his eighteen years of training to evade the enemy. After two years with Torchwood, John knew that they were well-trained, especially when it came to the safety of the Tyler family. On the outside, there were five veteran agents securing the perimetre; on the inside, Jake's hand-picked team guarded Jackie and Tony whilst Pete and the Clowndick were at Torchwood One Medical. Thanks to the Cyber Wars in 20.6, the trees and bushes around the mansion had been destroyed, so no intruder could approach the house without being spotted. Moreover, having visited the mansion three times during the Darkness, John knew of at least sixteen security cameras observing the lawn, driveway and rear of the home. He knew that he could have broken into the mansion had he been carrying the proper equipment; however, instead of a Ranger's target-and-neutralise, his objective was to seek out and talk to the one person that _might_ listen to him.

Inhaling as if he were diving underneath thick water and expecting to drown, he stepped out from the shadows in front of a surprised Torchwood agent and lifted his arms in surrender. "I need to talk to your boss," said John.

****

Jake Simmonds, Jackie and the three French youths dejectedly watched the series of news stories maligning Rose and the rogue Agent John O'Reilly. Jackie's hazel eyes flashed angrily at the Crowley-bitch's gleeful insinuations that Rose was either an American-crazed nymphomaniac or a Russian spygirl for Vladimir Putin. Though she resolved to give Rose a piece of her mind for taking up with John O'Reilly, Jackie _knew_ that her daughter, like the Doctor, would never betray her vow to defend the Earth. Ahmad held Claire's hand in his, occasionally muttering a _putain_ under his breath, whilst Jake mindlessly repeated _fucking hell_. Pierre was about to make a comment when they abruptly turned their attention to the ruckus that was rapidly approaching Pete's study. A moment later, Jake, Jackie and the French gasped in surprise as the handcuffed body of John O'Reilly emerged from the other side of the double doors and thudded face-first at their feet. Two Torchwood agents followed thereafter, their lips curled up in derision at the American.

"Sorry, sir, madam, but we've an intruder on the premises," said the male Torchwood agent whilst the female, his partner, kept a taser pointed at the Ranger.

Jake chewed on his lip angrily, then squatted down to John, who was sliding his knees under his chest to move into a kneeling position. "Well, what do we have here? I guess MI5 couldn't handle the bloody traitor," he growled lowly. Before John could respond, he felt a palm violently collide with the left side of his face, knocking him down to the hardwood floor. The Northerner moved to hit him again when a commanding female voice yelled, "Stop it, Jake. This won't solve anything." Reluctantly, Jake stood up and backed away in disgust.

"Fuck…" John yelped at his now swollen eye.

"And _you!_ " The Ranger snapped to attention at the infuriated Jackie Tyler, who stood akimbo in front of him. "What have you done with my daughter, you bloody bastard?! I always knew you were a snake, you bloody shite!" she hissed.

"Mrs Tyler, I…" he began.

"Shut it! Why are you here? Do you want a ransom? You know we have plenty of money! Just name your price and give us back Rose," she half-demanded, half-pleaded, her dressing gown crashing at her sides like high tide.

"Mrs Tyler, I don't have Rose. I'm trying to find the man who does — Karl Björnstjerna," said the Ranger.

"You're a fuckin' liar!" yelled Jake. "You gave the Yanks, and therefore Björnstjerna, the detonator to cover your tracks in Paris. There's only one reason why anyone would tamper with evidence — 'cause they're guilty as shite!"

"That's where you're wrong, Jake!" retorted John. "Yeah, I took the detonator. But it wasn't to cover up anything. This … guy, he's Special Forces-turned-CIA, a really mean sonofabitch. He's literally into every fucked-up scheme that the CIA ever thought of — and those are the ones that _I know about!_ Believe me, the guy's been a pain in my ass for years."

"And?" interjected Jackie, her hazel eyes flashing dangerously. "Out with it!"

"I don't know if you still have my phone, but you can check. He was _very interested_ in Rose and Noble."

Jackie's eyes softened slightly; rocking back on her heels, she crossed her arms at the American's words. As Jake rolled his eyes in disbelief, John took the chance to continue his explanation, once again rising to his knees. "I knew he was sent to keep tabs on me 'cause I was lying to my 'superiors' at the FBI about Torchwood. But I didn't know that he was involved in Paris until he contacted me about retrieving the detonator. It was American-made, one of the CIA's signature IEDs."

Jake nodded sceptically. "Alright. Assuming for the moment that you're _not_ lying through your teeth, _Agent O'Reilly_ , answer this then: Why did your _friend_ try to kill the Doctor, Ahmad, Pierre and Claire? _!_ "

"Because Noble's a fuckin' idiot, that's why!" he shouted, pulling slightly at his handcuffs. "He used Rose's phone to view that video and they traced it to him. My _friend_ wanted to tie up loose ends."

"If we're supposed to trust that you're not CIA, Agent O'Reilly," bellowed Ahmad, "then explain why your record is non-existent and your specialty is encryption." He knelt menacingly next to the American. " _Oui, connard_ , we looked you up," he whispered in John's ear.

The Ranger waivered at Ahmad's question, silently acknowledging his newly-found position between a rock and a hard place. "I can't answer that; much of what I may have done in the Service is still classified. What I can tell you is that I was a cryptologist and was _never_ CIA." He heard the young man murmur " _Enfoiré…_ " in response.

"But yet you know who the CIA man is," voiced Claire, whom Ahmad carefully shielded from him.

Reluctantly, John looked up at her. "I do."

"So why are you protecting him then?" asked Jackie.

"I _was_ protecting him until he threatened Rose." He took a deep breath and then went on, "When I was a kid, my father told me that family was _everything,_ no matter who they are, what they had done. You look out for them. 'S why I joined the Army and became a Ranger. My mother and grandmother died and my father was always a hard man…That's all I knew about until I was fourteen."

Jackie uncrossed her arms in empathy and gently approached the American whilst Jake wiped his mouth with his hand in shock. "He's your brother, ain't he?" she spoke softly.

"Yeah," John said, nodding. "My father started stepping out on my mother with a family friend's wife when I was a baby. Patrick was born about a year after I was. The affair continued for years, though as a kid, I didn't know about any of it, neither did Patrick until he was thirteen. Bob McGee thought that Patrick was _his_ son until Patrick's mother revealed the secret to avoid joint custody. Then Patrick's mother fed him a lot of shit about how my father really loved _her_ , but stayed with my mother and I out of obligation. Patrick's blamed me ever since."

He shuddered at the memory of Jack O'Reilly's thirteen-year-long affair with Patrick's mother, Samantha McGee, during and after Candace O'Reilly's car accident and untimely death. His 'stepfather,' as Patrick called him, had caught Samantha in Jack's truck and filed for divorce within a week of the discovery. Samantha, a cold-hearted, calculating brunette with beady, brown eyes and whose family was rumoured to be well-connected to the Christian Identity Church and Aryan Nations, demanded a healthy maintenance and full custody of Patrick. When Bob refused, she came to their former home and proudly bragged about Jack O'Reilly's sexual prowess and _ability to produce a healthy son_. However, the woman's attempt at manipulating her ex-husband backfired; Bob did not contest custody and upon giving evidence of the affair to the judge, was ordered to pay a minimal maintenance per month. Bob McGee left Wyoming for Sturgis, South Dakota a week after the divorce was finalised and Patrick never saw him again. When Jack showed no interest in Patrick, the young man descended into his rage and hate. His mother nourished his anger, openly referring to Candace and John as "half-breeds" and "Red niggers," and encouraged him to take back his birthright by serving in the military. With her proud blessing, Patrick McGee was initiated into the Aryan Nations by her brother and pledged loyalty to the Christian United States of America.

John did not encounter Patrick again until 20.6, when the CIA agent greeted him ominously in a military tent outside of Boston, _"Here I am, my brother's keeper."_

 


	42. Boston

**Boston**

* * *

 

_"One life is all we have and we live it as we believe in living it._

_But to sacrifice what you are and to live without belief,_

_that is a fate more terrible than dying." — Jeanne d'Arc_

Donna Noble clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth impatiently, as she studied the tired, desperate Pete Tyler. Shaun continued to glare mistrustfully at the man; in the decade that he had been a barrister, he learned to decipher lies, half-truths and mostly-truths within minutes of meeting his clients. Within the circle of London's top silks, Shaun Temple was among the rarest barristers in that he had an impeccable sense of integrity and an impressive success rate. Within the few hours of knowing Pete Tyler, Shaun surmised that the self-made man from Peckham was much more than a lowly salesman-turned-billionaire. In the period before the Cyber Wars, corporate espionage, insider trading and governmental collusion were rampant, nearly destroying Britain's fragile economy and producing men like John Lumic. It was three years ago, during an aperitif with the top silks of Whitehall, that Shaun had first heard the allegation that Pete Tyler, the new darling and spy-master for Harriet Jones, was a MI5 double agent who had worked for both the Republic and John Lumic. At the time, Shaun attributed it to useless gossip and jealousy of the _new money_ thanks to President Jones's economic and social reforms; but once he met the man, the barrister believed their every word and trembled at Tyler's interest in his wife. He exchanged a pensive look with Donna, whose hazel eyes communicated the same misgivings.

"You're asking my wife, a _civilian_ , to clean up whatever mess you've made, sir," scoffed Shaun. "Why the hell should we trust you? A man who seems to be at the right place in the right time?"

Pete narrowed his eyes at the question. "What is it you're really asking, Mr Temple?"

Before Donna could interrupt, Shaun took a step toward the man so that he was within a few centimetres from his impassive face. "Who the _hell_ are you really, besides Director of Torchwood?" he demanded.

"As I said to you before," growled Pete, "I'm not a man to be trifled with, so do tread lightly."

Donna clenched her fists at the mysterious Torchwood Director. "Listen well, damn it!" she snapped at him. "I'm inside Torchwood, I've been made next-of-bloody-kin to an alien and am now being asked to play secret agent with a man whose loyalties are, shall we say, _quite_ questionable! In case I'm locked up by Number 10 or MI5, I'd like to know who I'm working for!" she yelled.

Pete's gaze seemed to soften at the redhead's outburst. He took a step back from her equally irate husband and took a deep breath. "You're working for Infinity, Ms Noble," he said. At the pair's confused look, he put up his hands to indicate a momentary explanation. "I'm with Infinity, have been for a long time. Now," he said in a weary tone, "you can trust me or not. But we need to find Rose and the Doctor is unfortunately the only one who can."

Shaun's mouth open and closed indignantly. "Bloody hell. Are you mad?!"

The Director's blue-green eyes flashed dangerously, betraying an uncharacteristic loss of temper. "Mr Noble, yes, I am apparently _quite. Fucking._ Mad. No, I am _not_ a terrorist. For your information, I have kept this Republic together before _and_ after John Lumic. I am, more importantly, a very concerned dad who's _looking for his missing daughter._ A dad's who's praying that the alien who took her has thus far kept her alive. A dad who's a born and raised son of Peckham. Now, I am asking for your wife's help in bringing my own wife her only daughter home." Pete turned his head slightly toward Donna, his eyes still burning with emotion. "It's your choice."

Donna's husband stepped back from the shorter man, shaking his head wordlessly at his wife to refuse the man's request. The redhead inhaled nervously, then finally nodded. "I'll do it." Before Shaun could object, she grumbled, "Two reasons, neither of which have to do with Director Spook here. Firstly, this Björnstjerna will no doubt try to destroy the Earth, which seems to be a past time of extraterrestrials. I mean, really, can't we bloody get tourists?! Secondly, I still have to worry about my walking mess of a soon-to-be-ex-boss-cum-kinsman. He seems to think he's married to Rose and I can't imagine what kind of hell the next PA will deal with if she dies."

Pete gave her a curt nod. "Agreed. When he wakes up, we have to figure out what the Doctor saw. Since you share a link, you're the only one who can trace Björnstjerna. However, there is a risk. He may link to you, too."

"There's a better way," replied Donna. The two men stared at the woman. "Before we left the Doctor's flat, he was trying to build something to help him regain his memories. If it works, I don't think he'd need a second… _mind."_

Pete's stature slackened even as Shaun's remained vigilant. "Very well. Since the Doctor knows his physiology better than anyone, let's go with that instead." As Pete cleared the way toward the Doctor's hospital room, the Vitexphone in his pocket began to vibrate loudly. Silently cursing, the Director took out the phone, momentarily relieved that it was not his wife having a second go at him, and answered, "Jake, what is it?" Suddenly, his eyes widened; lowering the phone, he viciously jabbed the speaker phone key. "WHAT? How in the _fucking hell_ did that bastard of a Yank get ou' of the Tower?" he shouted, his Cockney accent becoming more pronounced.

Jake's eyes on the video screen glided diagonally downward as if indicating John O'Reilly's belly-down and handcuffed position on the study floor. "I haven't a clue, Pete. He just showed up at the front door, apparently."

Pete's eyes flashed dangerously. "And what, pray tell, did the Yank gobshite want?"

"Ask him yourself, mate," replied Jake, lowering the Vitexphone to show a battered and bruised John O'Reilly. Pete could overhear Jackie yelling at him about John's intrusion and his _bloody, no-good protection_.

" _Agent_ O'Reilly," the Director began ominously, "I'm in _no_ mood for your fucking games. I will ask you once and _only once._ Where is Rose?"

"John, as your barrister — " Shaun interjected, but was dragged away from the Vitexphone by his wife.

"It's okay, I'll answer," said John. "She's with Björnstjerna and very possibly my asshole half-brother-turned-CIA. The Doctor and the French have already been acquainted with him."

Pete's eyes narrowed. "And I should believe this? What about the detonator? Somehow, I doubt that it just disappeared into thin air."

John lifted himself up on his knees to face his former boss. "No, sir, it didn't. I took the detonator and gave it to him. It was to buy me time to get Rose to safety. Clowndick… _Noble,_ " he corrected with a hiss, unwilling to push his former employer too far, "broke into the NSA satellites using Rose's phone. They traced it and were going to use that fact against _her and you_ unless I cooperated."

The elder man crossed his arms in reflection, never taking his eyes off the Ranger. _The best lies were the most plausible ones_. But in examining the American for the slightest sign of obfuscation, he noticed the faintest waiver in his albeit uncomfortable posture.

 _There was more_.

"What else aren't you telling us?" he asked calmly. "This man, brother of yours, just keeps tabs on you — why? To make your life miserable? Frankly, vendettas are rarely this simple."

The American did not answer Pete's observation, which only emboldened the Briton. Pete's lips twisted into a half-smile of victory, half-sneer of disgust. "Oh, I've struck a nerve, it seems. I'm sure there's family history and even some _very interesting_ details in your heavily classified service record. But I've always wondered, Agent O'Reilly, why _Operation Tea Party_ seems to be of particular note." As Jake and Donna's eyes widened off-camera in realization that Pete had at some point seen his unredacted service record, John's careful exterior, ever so slightly, started to crumble, his eyes becoming unfocussed and his profile a sickly pallor.

Suddenly, Jackie's angry face came into sight on the Vitexphone. "I knew it! You knew about him, didn't ya? You and your bloody spy…!"

"Shut it, Jackie!" Pete shouted at his wife. "Now is _not_ the time. You can have a go with me later." Jackie's enraged eyes promised him a _second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and nth_ conversation later.

"What the hell is 'Operation Tea Party'?" interjected Jake.

"Yes, care to explain, or shall I, Agent O'Reilly?" said Pete, calmly hiding his bluff.

John again did not reply, knowing that he was _well and truly fucked_. He was indeed a _Grunt fucker,_ as his brother would have gleefully pointed out, had he been present. Off-hand, John did not know how many Rangers continued their careers in the CIA or NSA, but given their natural desire for candor and simplicity, he would have guessed very few. In his eagerness to find Rose, John miscalculated by going to the man whose very position was to collect and use information to turn potential agents, often unwillingly, to the service of the British Republic. Operation Tea Party was a top-secret mission gone awry, one which had been classified by the US State Department and all relevant parties. Acknowledging its existence would be considered treasonous under the Espionage Act of 1917. The Director was charging him a steep price, one that Jack O'Reilly would have to pay.

"What's Rose worth to you?" inquired Pete, as if reading the Ranger's thoughts.

_His father or Rose._

_His family or the universe._

_Fate chooses you, Noozhishenh. Tell the truth, for that is your way,_ echoed a woman's alto.

The Ranger, furious, looked up at the man. "Everything. I'm here because she's in danger, because _we're all in danger_. Look, put me in jail for the rest of my life, throw away the key. I don't give a shit. But all I know is this guy Björnstjerna is the biggest threat we've ever known. That includes the Daleks and the Darkness."

Pete arched an strawberry-blond eyebrow sceptically. "Really? And why should we believe you? How do I know that this isn't some desperate manoeuvre by our friends at Langley?"

"Because Langley betrayed us all near Boston in 20.6." At their collective, though disbelieving silence, the Ranger went on with his story. "We thought we were re-converting Lumic's Cybers. I was head of the 'Nerd Turds'; we worked with the codes and factory conversion machinery. Military leadership didn't like us much; instead of simply blowing the living fuck out of them, like they hadn't been people before their conversion, our mission was to deactivate them, peacefully and with dignity. Nobody wants to live like that; our job was essentially to serve as the pallbearers of Lumic's victims. I didn't realize what was going on until it was too late," spoke John, his voice cutting the air like glass.

"Realize what?" asked Jackie softly, kneeling next to him.

"One night in 20.6, a few weeks after the US received the codes, I saw…Patrick there with fifteen operatives as my CO, Captain Charlie Russell, and I reported to the General. We'd just deactivated about fifty Cybers using those codes from London. Good job, well done, the usual bullshit. Next thing I know, Patrick and the General order us all to the hangar where the Cybers' corpses were being kept. I thought it was a simple inspection, though somethin' was naggin' at me. Once we arrive, I see this man, some fancy pants from Europe standing with several canisters labelled 'Biohazard.' The General orders us to roll up our sleeves for a new vaccine against Cyberization. Better than Britain's codes, they said. To prove that it's safe, Patrick injects into himself in front of us. Patrick's CIA goons divide themselves into two groups; ten to innoculate us, the other ten went to the Cybers. I knew something was wrong when they wanted to innoculate _the dead_. Several of the guys objected, but as the Captain reminded us, 'Rangers lead the way.' Russell was a good guy, came from a military family like I did. West Point grad," the Ranger trailed off, overwhelmed by emotion.

Both ends of the Vitexphone were dead silent, anticipating the inevitable conclusion of his story.

John took a moment, then continued, his voice shaking, "We rolled up our sleeves. I didn't…I didn't trust Patrick worth shit. Something told me _not_ to get in line. So I made excuses _not_ to get in line — my men needed it more, wanted to make sure no Cybers were around. About seven guys from my unit follow suit. Finally, Patrick calls my bullshit and grabs me. Calls me an Injun coward. As he's about to inject me himself, we hear piercing screams, laser fire and the heavy thumps of Cybers. At the same time, several…S-s-several of the innoculated guys begin screaming, blood coming out of every which-where and their skin, Jesus Christ, it became see-through. Those, like Patrick, who seemed to tolerate the serum were shot dead on sight by the Cybers. The seven of us still alive and that fuckin' idiot sonofabitch ran for cover. We shot about ten of them before we realized that the Controller sent them as a diversion. The Cybers shot six of us as we tried to beat 'em to Lexington. But it was too late; by the time Patrick and I reached the refugee camp there, one hundred twenty-one civilians were dead. My unit, dead. Everyone dead except for Patrick and I. Luckily, the Cybers were overwhelmed at Watertown a few hours later by two hundred Mounted Police who'd come down from Québec and Vermont."

Though Pete's face betrayed no emotion, Shaun had raised his hand to cover his mouth, Donna stared at the ground and Jake, glassy-eyed, sat down in a chair part-way through the haunting tale. The three French youths stood aghast in the background. Jackie's eyes filled with tears as she murmured, "John, this wasn't your fault."

The Ranger scoffed disgustedly. "I could have openly refused and gone to the brig, taking my entire unit with me. They'd be alive. Those fuckin' people in Lexington would be alive! Their families would know the truth instead of assuming that they were Cyberized or simple failures of the 'British codes'!"

"No, son," interrupted Pete quietly, "you'd be dead. You'd have had no way to defend yourself. Jake, uncuff him, please." Jake did as his boss requested, grabbed the master key and uncuffed the American, sitting him down gently into his chair. Though the Manc was still angry with his former group mate, his impulse to break his neck and throw his body off the mansion roof had greatly dissipated with his story.

Pete nodded. "Right. I'm not going to belabor this, but I do have one question, Agent O'Reilly. What happened to that 'fancy pants European,' as you describe?"

Head in hands, John shook his head. "I don't know. I honestly didn't know Boston and Paris were related until I saw Patrick. Maybe I didn't _want_ to make that connection," he rasped.

"So the man _wasn't_ Linus Magnussen?" asked Jake.

"No, I would have recognized and killed him at the Pasteur," said John tersely.

Off-camera, Pete and Donna exchanged looks and similar conclusive thoughts. Fishing her Vitexphone out of her pocket, she logged on to her browser and typed in a particular name. Clicking on a link to the Swedish Embassy in Paris, she discreetly passed the phone to the Director, who held it up to his Vitexphone screen. "Agent O'Reilly, is this the man you saw?"

John's blue eyes widened in recognition and his heart thumped in his chest as if he had just finished a marathon. "That's him," he breathed at the professional portrait of Minister-Counsellor, now _Chargé,_ Karl Björnstjerna.

****

As the voices reverberated in the hospital corridor, Doctor James Noble inhaled raggedly, boiling rage simmering to the surface as Daph watched intently and Belle still obscured herself underneath the hospital bed. His superior metabolism had processed the seditive within minutes and his part-Time Lord hearing allowed him to eavesdrop on the conversation between Pete Tyler and the _Sheep-shagger_. Björnstjerna had used them all as lab rats in a grotesque and not-yet completed experiment involving Rose and perhaps all of humanity. He could not let another malevolent being take away everything he held dear. The Doctor glanced at the orange-eyed cat and growled, "Help me get out of here."

 


	43. Divergence

**Divergence**

* * *

 

Benátky nad Jizerou, Holy Roman Empire

September 3, 1601

Johannes Kepler covered his mouth from the suffocating stench of buring bodies and dense smoke as he dismounted his horse and followed his master, Tycho Brahe. The German mathematician shook in horror from the sight unfolding before him: several bodies of low-class Bohemians laid askew, blood rushing out of their every orifice, royal and local physicians, soldiers, and priests rushed about, burning contaminated bandages, providing brandy before the inevitable amputations of those still alive, and the murmur of last rites over those with moments left.

"Mein Gott," whispered Kepler. "Milord, what are we doing here? Should we not leave lest we attract this malady?"

Tycho Brahe did not respond to his subordinate's query; instead, he walked toward a clearing fifty meters in the distance, where the soldiers and mercenaries gathered around a mysterious object. One of the burghers, Przibik, pointed wordlessly at the dark grey pumice-like stone and a viscous black oil oozing from its pores.

"Lord Brahe," said Przibik, "from what we have been told, this rock fell from the sky a few hours past. Soon after, these men fell ill. Christ keep us, for this is the Devil's work!"

"Hardly," replied Brahe glibly. "This may indeed be a supralunary star or a comet. The question is, however, why it causes black bile. Melancholia is my opinion; it's cold and dry this night. Kepler, you've taken enough study from Jessensius, why don't you have a look?"

As Kepler hesitantly knelt near the rock to inspect it, he overheard the mistrusting murmurs of _"Protestant bastard," "Tycho the Witch,"_ and _"We'll be damned for eternity"_ among the small group of Bohemian Catholic mercenaries and burghers behind them. The German rolled his eyes irritably and hollered, "Bloody hell, shut up! His Imperial Highness has ordered us, the Witch and this Protestant Bastard, to investigate this phenomenon. Now, would you like to answer to _him_ or would you just as soon as save the wars for another day and let us complete our task?!" At the stilled silence following his outburst, Kepler sarcastically nodded, " _Vielen Dank_. Now let me work."

Brahe's lips twisted into a smirk at bit of hush from the crowd. This was the first time that the Dane welcomed Kepler's infamous rudeness; to quote their common friend Jessensius, Johannes had the etiquette and disposition of a Bavarian butcher and the foul-mouth of a Teutonic Aristophanes. Brahe winced at the memory of a months-long quarrel over money, residence and scientific method with the younger German mathematician. Contrary to tradition and court etiquette, Kepler wanted a separate residence for his family at Benátky nad Jizerou and demanded to be treated with a respect beyond his station. Though Kepler was technically a low-ranking noble, he was certainly not, as Brahe was, related to the oldest Danish or German noble and royal families, nor did he have the Danish astronomer's scientific prestige. Tycho regularly scoffed at a man whose Danish was somewhat above average for a foreigner, who stank from a lack of bathing and whose eyes were weaker than those of a bat. Nevertheless, Brahe greatly admired Kepler's mathematical mind; though he refused to admit it publicly, he was convinced that Kepler would become among history's greatest natural philosophers.

A moment later, Kepler stood and faced Brahe and the burghers. "It's my determination that this substance is a form of black bile. Since it's here on Earth, its likely element is earth. But what I fail to understand is how it could make these men ill. Perhaps a magnetism of some sort. Nonetheless, we should not touch or otherwise disturb it until we understand its nature. Unless," he turned to snigger at the Bohemians, "you're afraid that it'll cast a spell and make you dance naked under the moonlight."

"Insolent heretic!" growled one of the soldiers, whose right hand dropped threateningly to his sword.

"Enough!" commanded Brahe. "I concur with Kepler. Under orders of his Imperial Highness, _no one,_ under penalty of death, shall touch this object without my express consent. Is that understood?" Brahe then summoned his protegé to his side. The smaller, dark-haired man obeyed, flanking the blond Scandinavian, who spoke in Danish, "Kepler, though I may have developed a certain tolerance for your… _eccentricities_ and imprudence, these men — Catholics — are looking for a reason to have you burnt at the stake. Now, do control your tongue, Sir!" Kepler's brown eyes twinkled angrily in the firelight, for he hated to refrain from speaking the truth and defending his right to his personal beliefs. He knew, as did Brahe, that the Dane's observational data was the key to proving Copernicus correct and ensuring his place in the milieu of astronomy and mathematics normally closed to lowly-born men. _Bite your tongue a bit longer, Johannes; your time will come,_ he said to himself as he nodded to his master. "Good man," replied Brahe. "Now, we must act with haste, for these nobles respect the Emperor like they do a pig to the slaughter. They _shall_ use this to their advantage. Counsel me, Sir."

"Milord, we shall eventually have to move the new _species,_ preferably to the castle before more people die, either from the black bile or by the sword of ignorants. But since this is now associated with us, the nobility will be on the lookout," answered Kepler in Brahe's mother tongue.

"Agreed. Surrendering this _species_ would be tantamount to high treason. This means that _we_ shall have to guard this, even with our lives." Brahe quickly examined the smaller, frail German. "Do you carry a weapon, Sir?"

Kepler shook his head. "No, Milord. _Judge not, so neither shall you be judged. Do not condemn, and you shall not be condemned. Forgive, so you shall be forgiven._ "

Brahe rolled his eyes at the extreme uprightness of the man. "Oh, for heaven's sake, stay behind me! As much as Christ's words have merit, men seem to forget them in times of war."

Neither the astronomers, nor the soldiers took notice of the black liquid seeping toward them.

****

Torchwood One

London, Great Britain

10 December 2.13

0100 GMT

_Doctor James Noble glanced at the orange-eyed, blue Scottish Fold and growled, "Help me get out of here."_

The Marquis blinked at him, then rose gracefully from his spot on the Doctor's abdomen whilst yawning at the Time Lord-human hybrid. A moment later, he jumped down from the hospital bed and sauntered toward the slightly ajar door into the dull white painted corridor.

"What are you doing, Tosser?! The release button is over here!" hissed James under his breath, gesturing toward the panel to his right.

Narrowing his orange eyes, the Marquis let out a loud and lamenting meow to the open hallway. After a few seconds, the cat triumphantly led Donna, Pete and Shaun into the Doctor's room. At the Doctor's cursing in several alien languages, Daph wrapped his medium-length grey-blue tail around Donna's legs, rubbing up against the human and purring in precisely timed self-defence.

"Might I ask just what the hell you're up to, Doctor?" demanded the redhead.

Still glaring at the cat, James replied blandly, "Oh, I just needed a slip of water. That's all. Water refreshes the body, 'specially after it's been overwhelmed with sedatives."

Rubbing his eye, Shaun muttered amusedly, "Even I know that's a bullshit story, mate."

Pete crossed his arms in exasperation. "Doctor, you travelled with my daughter for, what, two years? How in the hell did she put up with you?"

The Doctor refused to answer their questions and quips and continued to glower at Daph, who looked at him innocently.

"Right, enough with the crap stories. You're not goin' anywhere!" yelled Donna.

"ENOUGH!" bellowed James. "I'm the Doctor. Not a clone, not a wish, but the _real Time Lord in the flesh and now, your only hope of survival._ I heard every bloody word between you and John O'Reilly. Assuming that he is telling the truth, his _brother_ helped create a new human race of bodysnatchers. Also assuming that this universe is even ten percent similar to my original universe, I only know of _one_ alien race that can do this. And guess what? They're extra-dimensional beings that not even _my people_ could easily stop." His eyes shined like black ice.

"And you think that goin' in with guns blazin' is somehow gonna save the Earth? Save _her?!_ " she spat. "I don't know _what_ exactly the Other Me would have said, but that sounds like the most bollocksed up plan I've ever heard!"

James cracked a smile. "Well, actually, the Other Donna would have said just that. But I trade in bad plans well-executed."

"Yeah, well, that is the supermassive black hole of all possible plans," quipped Donna.

"Oi! Better a black hole than non-existent!" retorted her kinsman.

Pinching the bridge of his nose at the arguing pair, Pete interjected, "Doctor, we do need your expertise, as you obviously know who and _what_ these things are. However, you are in _no condition_ to go it alone." As the Doctor opened his mouth to protest, the Director held up his hand to silence the half-alien. "This is not up for debate. Like it or not, I am the senior-ranking member of this team and you are here at _my convenience._ I am accountable not only to the Republic, but moreover to one Jackie Tyler. You are not going into the field. You shall remain at Torchwood One, where you shall have access to anything you need in R and D. Tosh will continue to monitor your physiological _and_ psychological stress, and if there's _any sign_ of trouble, you're right back here. Are we clear, Doctor?"

The half-Gallifreyan shot him a pointed glare. "Crystal."

Pete nodded. "Very well." Daph, who was pacing at the feet of the three humans, moved out of the man's way as he walked around the hospital bed to the panel on the other side of the room. Pressing a button, the Sontaran leather restraints loosened, allowing the Doctor to slip his arms and wrists from the material. Rubbing his lightly chaffed skin, he muttered a reluctant "ta." As James swung his long thin legs to the floor, arranging himself in a sitting position at the bedside, he once again heard Pete's stern voice. "Don't think that this is all. You will tell me who these creatures are and what they want with Rose. No more withholding information."

Irritably, James gazed up to icy blue-green eyes staring back at him. "I wasn't _withholding_ information. I didn't know what they were until Johnny-boy told us about Boston. They need physical organisms — the more intelligent, the better — to interact within any universe. Without a body, they're like thoughts — consciousness — in air. I'd say they're like Eternals, but they disappeared during the Time War. And that didn't exist here. Trust me, I'd _know._ "

"You said something before about this universe bein' created four years ago," said Shaun from behind them. "Did they arrive then or at _our beginning_?"

James rolled his eyes. "Oh, for Chrissakes, they're the same bleedin' thing, Shaun! From my point of view, your universe was created four years ago-ish. 2006 — well, what you lot would call 20.6. But within your universe, its measurable age is 13.8 billion years, corresponding to the age of the Big Bang's light that has reached human eyes on Earth."

Shaun frowned and shook his head. "Wait — you said _four years._ It's 2.13; that would make it seven years, yeah?"

"Time runs faster here," replied Pete. "In his world, it's 20.9 or 2.10."

"Exactly," affirmed James. "The Eternals live outside of the multiverse. Theoretically, they _could_ move from one universe to another; they can will planets and stars into existence. But the Time Lords and Guardians are the only species who could reliably control such travel. The Eternals, however, need bodies to communicate and travel — _us_. But what I don't understand is the game they're playing." At the confused looks of Pete, Shaun and Donna, the Doctor continued, "They view Ephemerals — us — as play-things, as parasites for their complete _lack_ of creativity and justice. They take on our thoughts, our personalities, our desires. They wouldn't need a _virus_ specifically to play. Unless…."

"Unless what, Doctor?" asked Donna.

The Doctor's eyes rounded, panic crossing his face. "They're not Eternals."

"Doctor, what do you mean?"

James Noble gulped, his half-human body tremoring. "At the end of the Great Time War, before I….Before I _killed them all_ , the Lord President of Gallifrey wanted….He…." The half-human sank to the bed, his already-pale face blanched at the unwanted memories. Donna rushed to his side and sat next to him, taking his cool hand into hers. James started to rock back and forth in an attempt to calm himself before rushing through his next words. "He wanted to cause the Ultimate Sanction. Time Lords becoming entities of pure consciousness — without form — whilst the universe ceased to exist. But the High Council was corrupt. They used ordinary Gallifreyans for their armies and whom they considered _lesser races_ to fight their battles with the Daleks, with themselves. I stopped it — by destroying my own planet. I thought that I had stopped it. Now, it seems like I butchered _billions for fucking nothing!_ " he exploded. Donna gripped his hand tighter in an attempt to ground the fragile hybrid.

Shaun, Donna and Pete exchanged worried looks. "So Björnstjerna and his lot are disembodied, evil Time Lords?" queried Donna's husband.

James nodded. "Essentially. The virus wasn't a virus; it was their corrupted essence of being. When it invades another host, it either accepts or rejects the invasion. The rejection means death. But the acceptance of the parasite is a fate worse than death. I've seen this before in my eighth incarnation. The Master, a rival Time Lord, changed himself into a corrupted form of consciousness to steal the remainder of my thirteen lives. He could read minds and…possess others for his will."

"Shit," uttered Pete. "How in the hell did they get here?"

"They must have travelled across the Void when the walls of reality were breaking down, though they wouldn't necessarily have arrived in 2.13. It could have been earlier. But something must have caused them to fall into this universe's linear time," the Doctor whispered in a voice hoarse from emotion and defeat.

"And what about Rose?" asked the Director. "Why her?"

The Doctor froze at Rose's father's question. Not only was he responsible for the murder of billions of Gallifreyans, but also a countless number of humans in Pete's World. James Noble was not a hero; he was an incompetent fool who let an unknown number of Time Lords escape through the void to abduct and possibly murder Pete Tyler's beloved daughter and his betrothed. As Björnstjerna tauntingly reminded him in their mind-link, he was only _part-_ Time Lord, a _Mischling_ , no match for a full-blooded graduate of the Academy.

 _Mischling, din död kommer snart och jag ska ha Gyllene !_ echoed his own voice.

Suddenly, Daph and Belle jumped on the bed and flanked the Doctor, as he heard Donna's distant alto shouting his name continuously. Belle hissed from behind the half-alien, her white tail puffing out to warn the humans of danger. Daph strode quickly into his lap, situating himself so that James was staring into his orange cat eyes. With his right paw, the Marquis reached out and tapped the half-human's face. He repeated the exercise until James blinked and tried to push away the cat.

"Doctor!" cried Donna.

"Donna, you're in danger now. Björnstjerna knows of your existence. Why he hasn't gone after you, I haven't the foggiest. But you should remain in Torchwood, in any case. I…I don't know what I can do. A full Time Lord is the single being a half-Time Lord _can't_ beat," said the Doctor in a resigned tone, his head hanging in shame.

Before Pete could restate his question, Donna rose to her feet and, still gripping his hand, barked at James, "Don't you _dare_ give up! Rose needs you, this planet needs you! You're the Doctor! Do something!"

_Save someone._

"I need Rose," he corrected bitterly. "The Other was right about that. But she isn't here, is she?"

"Then get her back, Doctor," said Pete firmly.

James Noble stared at the floor. Had he still been fully Time Lord, he would have had a rudimentary, yet successful plan to capture Björnstjerna and free Rose from wherever and indeed _whenever_ she was being imprisoned. As a half-human, half-Time Lord, however, James felt incontinent and disabled. How could _he_ possibly defeat the Time Lords without his TARDIS, without his sonic screwdriver, without his remaining regenerations?

The logical act for him would be to let Torchwood handle it and run for his life, such as it was.

_"Never cruel nor cowardly. Never give up. Never give in."_

The promise of the Doctor.

"The only way the Master could actualise himself was through the Eye of Harmony," he finally spoke. "He failed. Had there been a Time Lord civilisation, they wouldn't waste time with Earth. So the Eye doesn't exist in this universe. Neither does any TARDIS. The coral that I received from the Other is in its infancy, which I'm quite sure Björnstjerna knows. There's only _one_ possibility left. To recuperate his regenerations and survive in this universe, he'd need to look into the Time Vortex. He needs Rose."

"Rose?" inquired Pete.

"My ninth incarnation. To save my life from the Daleks, Rose looked into the TARDIS; it looked into her. The Time Vortex coursed through her mind. She destroyed the Dalek fleet and almost killed herself in the process. I had to pull it out of her, which caused me to regenerate into my previous self," James explained.

"But if you pulled it out of her, then why does Björnstjerna need Rose?" enjoined Shaun.

"There was a remainder, wasn't there?" concluded Pete grimly, wiping his mouth with his right hand. "Now it makes sense. I always wondered just how she knew which universe she was in at any moment. The Other Doctor must have wondered as well. Is that the real reason why _he_ sent her back here?"

"He…I wasn't sure until I," James's eyes flashed fearfully at the man before him, "I _connected_ to her mind."

Pete's steely eyes focussed on the half-alien, his arms uncrossing and falling to his sides in disbelief. "And I suppose that you told no one, including _Rose?_ Jesus Christ, Doctor. You could be feeding Björnstjerna our discussion _right now!_ Not to mention what it could be doing to my bloody daughter!"

"I know," murmured James.

Disgusted, the Director scoffed at the alien. "So how do we keep Björnstjerna from turning Rose into his personal battery?"

"I've tried reaching Rose through our link, but her mind has been absorbed by an alternate reality that Björnstjerna has been using to pacify her," said the Doctor. "For whatever reason, December 17 — the Long Moon Night — is significant, according to the book in Ojibwe. Someone, whom I doubt is Björnstjerna, is trying to warn us of something. One thing is for certain, however; we cannot force Björnstjerna's hand. He will harm Rose and the Earth if pushed into a corner. We have to wait until December 17 to make our move."

"The night of the fundraiser," breathed Donna. Daph stepped to the redhead and rubbed his back against her hand. Belle jealously ran in front of the Scottish Fold to mark her human and hiss at the intruder. Daph retreated next to the Doctor, wrapping his tail around his torso.

James's eyes widened. "Magnussen brought us that book, so they must aware of some of it. But what if — _what if_ they don't understand it, either? Maybe they think it's a prophesy!" he exclaimed, running his hands through his unruly hair.

"So it's a trap for them," deduced the Director. "But who's doing…?"

The men exchanged mutually comprehending glances. "Agent Oshodi?" Pete called out.

Ten seconds later, Adeola Oshodi walked into the hospital room, throwing a glare at James, who nervously attempted to avoid the Martha Jones-lookalike's piercing gaze. "Yes, sir?" she answered.

"Bring me home. Then take Agent O'Reilly to Torchwood One. He's currently with Jake and my wife."

 


	44. A Bad Plan Well-Executed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: Is anyone still out there? It's been...months since my last update. My sincerest apologies! I hate to have kept you all waiting, but I do have a good excuse. I have been ill for months. Nothing lethal, per se, but enough to slow me down in my real life, let alone in fic writing. But here I am, well enough to continue the story. Due to professional obligations, I can't guarantee a regular schedule, but I haven't (nor will not) abandoned the story. It will be finished...eventually. This chapter is a bit short, just to get a rhythm going again. I hope you enjoy it.

**A Bad Plan Well-Executed**

* * *

 

Doctor James Noble examined his make-shift wardrobe of black jogger bottoms, a grey tee-shirt with 'Torchwood Institute' in black print on the front, white socks that were a size too large, his black and white Converses and his thick-rimmed spectacles in muted disgust. _Not the best attire to save Rose Tyler and the world_ , grumbled the Doctor. Granted, he had saved several planets in the buff. But that was when he was a full Time Lord with a sonic screwdriver and a TARDIS.

After running a hand through his unruly, chestnut-coloured hair, James approached the closed door, where the glaring Scottish Fold impatiently tapped his blue tail. Recognising that his human was properly dressed and finally ready to leave, the cat shifted out of the way to let him pass. The half-alien opened the door to reveal Donna, Shaun and Belle.

"Director Tyler left while you were dressing," explained Donna unnecessarily.

James looked at the pair tiredly, then nodded. "Right. I'm heading down to my lab on North minus two. Mind Tosser here." As he proceeded down the hall, he heard a thunderous stomping behind him.

"Stop!" ordered Donna.

Reluctantly, the Doctor came to a halt, then turned expectantly to face his kisman.

As Shaun and the cats followed, she closed into the Doctor, stopping a few centimetres from his face, "Oi! We're not your sidekicks! 'No secrets', remember? For a supposedly genius alien, you've forgotten that I have Pete Tyler's mobile number, let alone Dr. Sato's."

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "Fine! I'm off to see what scrap Torchwood has to contain Time Lord consciousness. Maybe we'll get lucky."

"You can't, I don't know, just _kill_ him?" asked Shaun from behind Donna, picking up Belle to hold her in his arms.

"No," answered the Doctor flatly, "I _can't just_ _kill_ Björnstjerna, Shaun. Since he inhabits bodies to live among morals, he'll gladly use up a million corpses to _kill us_ , and that's just to get started. _And_ that's assuming that he hasn't connected himself to Rose."

Alternately irritated and concerned, Shaun, still cradling the white cat, took a step next to his wife. But before he could reply, Donna interjected, "Right, so what can we do?"

The Doctor inhaled deeply, his brown orbs glassy, coloured with a dark tinge of madness. "He needs a massive amount of energy to jump from one body to another. 'S like usin' defibrillators on someone who's gone into cardiac arrest — jump-start the heart with an electric current. Ew, actually reminds me of the end of my seventh self," the half-alien shuddered. Ignoring Shaun's and Donna's puzzled looks at his admission, he continued, "If Rose is connected to him, his source of electricity, he's manipulating her mind. That explains what I saw in my call to her."

"Your call?" asked Donna.

"I reached out to her with my mind, to locate her, but…" the Doctor trailed off, his face contorting into wordless distress at the memory.

"But what?" she pressed. "Doctor, whatever it is, we need to know. It affects us all."

James sniffed, his sullen eyes fixating on a point down the corridor. "She's living in _married bliss_ to a certain Army Ranger. Didn't quite want to leave," he said quietly.

"You said she's being manipulated, yeah? How do we know that Björnstjerna isn't playing on that so she won't fight?" queried Shaun.

The half-alien targeted his brown eyes on Shaun, sneering in a venomous tone, "Well, _Shaun_ , I'm sure he is, though given the obvious fact that Rose was _shagging_ Mr. Randy Ranger on this very mission — and enjoying it, I might add — it apparently didn't take much for her to give in."

"Any idiot can see why!" bit out the sollicitor under his breath.

"Both of you, knock it off!" growled the former human resources manager. "We need to focus on the task at hand, which is to find Rose and disrupt Björnstjerna's plan. If she is his battery of sorts, won't she 'run out'? And why did Patrick not turn into goo from the vaccine, but O'Reilly's Rangers did?"

 _Good questions — still brilliant, Donna is!_ beamed the Doctor inwardly. Then just as abruptly, his face fell. "If Bad Wolf had simply been a remainder, then she would have immediately died from being bled of her bioelectricity. I thought I had…I didn't want to see the obvious. She's more, _so much more."_ He directed a hard stare at his companions. "If we don't get to her soon, our entire universe may collapse. As for the Sheep-shagger's brother, the vaccine's effects could be completely random, far from a success. Magnussen — well, the entity formerly known as Magnussen — went through at least two bodies, _"_ replied the Doctor. "Dead ones won't do and there are no other Time Lords."

"But why?" asked Shaun. "And why humans?"

James stared out into space, reaching once again for his brown mane. That was also a good question — why did Björnstjerna want living, albeit mortal human beings for bodies? "C'mon!" he yelled to himself, " _Think, think, think!_ Even in _this_ universe, there are arguably stronger, more technologically advanced races with longer lifespans: The Sycorax, the Sontarans, even the Cybermen. As beings of pure consciousness, they could go anywhere and inhabit _anyone,_ so why waste time on _lesser beings?"_ Before either Donna or Shaun could reply, the Doctor's eyes widened in a sickening thought. "The same reason why humans use animals as test subjects — better them than us," he murmured.

"Doctor, what does that mean?" enjoined Shaun, who was wrestling with an increasingly perturbed white cat. Daph walked up to him, wagging his tail animatedly as he watched the human handle the petite feline. A moment later, Belle escaped to the corridor floor and, whilst hissing at the blue Scottish Fold, retreated behind Donna.

"It means that the vaccine was more than just a virus gone wrong," the Doctor breathed. "It was a _regeneration_ gone wrong." At their semi-quizzical looks, he continued, "I've mentioned before that I've had several bodies; I've regenerated eleven times, this being my last body. Time Lords were the only race in my universe that could completely change their bodies whilst preserving their essence — their memories and knowledge. That's what makes a Time Lord or Time Lady who they are. Björnstjerna has no intention of remaining a Time Lord trapped inside a human body. He wants to resurrect the Time Lords. The virus was a desperate attempt to rewrite their DNA, as humans are like very primitive Time Lords, like an extremely low-functioning chimpanzee to _homo sapiens —_ actually, more like cells from a chimpanzee. _"_ At the humans' irritated looks, he quickly added, "No offence. But without billions of years of evolution near the time vortex, it would be a complete failure. Except for Rose. She's their time vortex!"

"Over my fucking dead body!" interrupted a male voice. Cats and humanoids turned to face a scruffy, John O'Reilly standing next to an equally irritated Agent Oshodi. Though he stood upright and gave the impression that he was battle-ready, the Ranger's right eye was turning purple, his forehead was slightly caked in dried blood, and he feebly tried to hide the discomfort from his left side.

James's eyes narrowed dangerously at the American. _"_ Ah, Sheep-shagger, how nice of you to join us," he hissed. "Mart—Agent Oshodi, did you happen to check him for weapons or a conscience?"

"Shut it, Noble," growled the Torchwood agent. "I've brought the prisoner as ordered."

As James flinched at the woman's harsh words, John's blue eyes scanned the group, visibly enlarging at the presence of an exasperated Donna Noble. Gesturing with a finger, he asked, "What are _you_ doing here?"

Her equally blue eyes widening, Donna scoffed, "I'm Spaceman's PA. What's it to you, Brute?"

As John opened his mouth to answer, Oshodi's Vitexphone rang, silencing the group of humans, cats and alien. Fishing the pink device from her raincoat pocket, she pressed the green telephone key and spoke, "Jake, go ahead; we're at Torchwood One."

Both Jake Simmonds's and Pierre Cohen's faces appeared on the screen. "Adi, is the Doctor there?" asked the Manc.

Adeola held up the phone to the spectacled Doctor, who waived facetiously, "Hello, Jakey-boy, Pierre!"

"Doctor, do you have a plan yet? My arsehole boy — no, make that my arsehole _ex-boyfriend_ — has 'leaked' Rose and John as the terrorists behind the Paris attacks. Pete and Olivier are trying to deflect Paris's call for their extradition, but we're running out of time. Not to mention Jackie's going spare."

"We're working on it," said the Doctor, quickly glancing at Donna and John. "I heard Former Special Agent Sheep-diddler's story. The bad news is that we're dealing with beings of pure consciousness — Time Lord consciousness at that — trying to turn themselves back into Time Lords using Rose as their time vortex. That's what the virus was — a bad form of Time-Lord genetic engineering."

"That's why they died," breathed John.

"Exactly," replied the Doctor. "That's also why the bodies can't sustain themselves for long. There's a reason why one shouldn't mess with Nature."

"So how do we stop them, especially if they're _your_ people, Doctor? And what about Rose? How do we know she's alive?" Jake questioned.

"Rose's alive, Jake. We have to locate her and disrupt the link between her and his pseudo-Matrix. That's how he's storing their consciousnesses. Whatever happened when they arrived in this universe, only two of them are active — Björnstjerna and whomever has Patrick McGee. That means only two of them know where Rose is. Then we disrupt the link. The only thing that could disrupt it is a strong telepathic link. Like a mental inhibitor. If she were a Time Lady, I'd suggest a family member or…"

"Or a spouse," finished Donna.

"Could John do it?" asked Shaun, gesturing at the weakened Ranger. "I realise, well, I assume he's human, but could he do it with your help? If he's her boyfriend, it would make better sense that she would reach out to him."

At Shaun's words, the Doctor swallowed a burning lump in the back of his throat. He wanted to tell them all that a human couldn't possibly sustain such a connection. Only the Mighty Time Lord — half-Time Lord — could save them all.

_I could save the world but lose you._

As a Time Lord, the Doctor lamented his companion's minimal lifespan, an eighty-or-so years compared to his thousands, perhaps millions of years. Though the Doctor would never openly admit it, he was comforted by the fact that he would have another beloved companion in his future — _a middle-aged, Medusa-haired archaeologist of all people_ — instead of constantly mourning the loss of a certain blonde from the Powell Estate. But as a mortal Time Lord, he would have the nauseating pleasure of watching his precious girl fall in love and live out her days by someone else's side, holding his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, James spotted Daph blinking his orange eyes gleefully.

 _Payback's a bitch, n'est-ce pas?_ _And like a spaceship from centuries in the future, it's a dish best served cold._

James sneered to himself and the cat. It seemed like the Sheep-shagger was getting **everything he wanted** and once again, the Doctor was forced to make decisions at his own expense. He could feel the dark, primordial cackle of the multiverse.

_Well, good, the feeling's mutual._

He knew that this was his punishment for forsaking his vows and rules as a Time Lord: _Never yield, never leave the TARDIS, never become emotionally involved with a companion._ He should feel ashamed at his behaviour with Rose. A Time Lord's duty and behaviour predicated on quantum probabilities and temporal statistics. In Universe Prime, the Doctor painfully felt the crevice of time emerge and widen between him and Rose. At the time, he had simply believed that Rose was the most jeopardy-friendly companion he had ever had. But by the time he brokenly touched a white wall at Canary Wharf, he knew that she had never been destined to be with him for long, not even for the duration of her short, human life.

_The same, impossible choice._

Even so, given the impossible chance to revisit his own past and change history, he would not have done a _damned thing_ differently. Though he wanted to travel and _on occasion_ save the Earth, James Noble could not and _would not_ leave _his precious, pink-and-yellow girl_ , not even if she wanted to _leave him, if she needed to leave him._

_The Valiant Child who will die in battle so very soon…_

It was not a question of _when_ , but _how._

 _Over my dead body,_ he vowed.

Instead of waves of fear over having one life, the idea comforted him, quietening his manic mind. Like in the cold solace that he had once felt after losing his Time Lord blood to a hungry plasmavore, James Noble felt himself relax for the first time since his creation. _One last mission_ , he calmly resolved.

"Doctor?" he heard Shaun call out to him.

Fixing a lighter, neutral expression, James replied brightly, "Yep, it's possible. Best course of action, really! How about it, Sheep-shagger? How's about joining Rose Tyler in matrimony and saving the world?"

John blinked in confusion. "What the hell are you talking about, Clowndick?"

James faced his rival impatiently, his manic expression quickly shifting into annoyance. "Rose is part of a dangerous, Time-Lordy prison-pseudo-Matrix that is controlling Björnstjerna's and Magnussen's bodies, the latter of which I suspect is now your brother. The only way to break that link is through an even stronger one. Björnstjerna gave us the equivalent of an ugly Christmas sweater or a basket full of pears — no, wait, forget the pears; at least ugly sweaters have some use —"

"Doctor!" huffed Donna.

"Right, sorry. Rose's trapped within her mind and the Matrix; she thinks she's married to you and is apparently happy about it."

A hint of a smile eclipsed the Ranger's face. "Is that right?"

Ignoring John's rhetorical comment, the Doctor continued, "Since you're human and aren't naturally telepathic, you'll need me to help you establish the link. I'll be an intermediary, so the work of getting her out will fall to you. Once you're connected, however, you'll remain that way for the rest of your lives. No chance of divorce."

The other man, however, did not smirk. "Wait a sec — how do we know that this will work? Are you even in a state of mind _for this to work?_ "

Facing the Ranger squarely, James answered tersely, "We don't have a choice. The Earth is in danger, _Rose_ is in danger. It's a bad plan, but it's the only one we've got. She needs us."

Before John could object further, Jake's voice echoed throughout the corridor. "Fine. How do we break into this Matrix thing? Better yet, _where_ the hell is it?"

The Doctor shook his head. "It could be anywhere on Earth. My guess is that they have it hidden extra-dimensionally."

"So it's on the quantum level?" interrupted Pierre Cohen on the Vitexphone screen. "But that's imposs—"

"Impossible?" finished the Doctor. "No, it's not. Time Lord technology is eons beyond human capabilities. Basic tech for us is storage in six, seven, eight or nine dimensions."

"What about that book of Kepler's, Doctor?" asked Jake. "Could it contain a clue?"

"Oh, shit. It's not on Earth," breathed John. "It's on the Moon." At the Doctor's raised eyebrow and the shock of the others, he responded to their unspoken question. "The _Somnium_ by Kepler means something here. His story is about a trip to the Moon. The narrator's mother conjures up spirits to sort of transport him to the surface of the Moon."

The Doctor froze at the Ranger's words. "The Long Night Moon, the moonrocks, the virus…The portal's on the Moon! Of course, I've been bloody blind!" The humans and cats eyed the half-alien blankly. "Four-and-a-half billion years ago, the Earth and Moon were the same; something hit the Earth-Moon and split 'em off. In my universe, it had something to do with spiders, well, kinda, sorta…But I digress. They must have come through this universe and followed the 'power source' — Rose — that took billions of years, from the Moon to the Earth.

Björnstjerna has an extra-dimensional 'staircase' of sorts leading to their source on the Moon."

"So it's here on Earth then?" asked John.

"Yep," replied the Doctor, popping the last consonant. "The question is where." Suddenly, he looked up, his brown eyes bright and manic for the first time in days. "I've got a plan. I need Torchwood's lab _now_! You lot may not have the technology, but _I do!_ It's all up in here!" he shouted triumphantly, pointing to his head. He looked down at the blue Scottish Fold sitting at his feet. "Cat stays. Donna, Sheep-shagger, c'mon!" As he started to jog down the corridor, James heard a ferocious hiss behind him. Rolling his eyes, he stopped and turned around to face a growling Daph stalking him. "Oh, fine, as long as you don't eat any alien bolts like a, a….cat!"

"Adi, take Mr Noble and the cat up to Director Tyler's lounge. I don't want him goin' home with Patrick McGee on the loose," said Jake.

Adi nodded. "Understood."

"Doctor, whatever it is you're doing, I want a full report in one hour. If you ignore us again, I'll get the _Boss_ on the phone," threatened Jake.

James frowned. "Pete has already stated that I —"

"The _Other Boss_ , Doctor," he stated flatly.

The Doctor's face blanched at the memory of a cheek that burned for hours. "Yeah, okay, right, understood," he murmured, absently rubbing the left side of his face.

"One hour, Doctor," reiterated the Northerner.

 


End file.
